


Confessions of a Known Misogynist

by jessicadamien



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 19:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 46,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessicadamien/pseuds/jessicadamien
Summary: A look into a few chapters that may have been missing from Watson's chronicles of the Great Detective.





	1. Chapter 1

Confessions of a Known Misogynist

Chapter One

In my long and adventurous acquaintance with the greatest detective this world has ever known, I have never before written about his cases without his permission. Once he gave it, he was gracious enough not to look over my shoulder as I wrote. When the stories were published in _The Strand_ , his normal response was a subtle rolling of his eyes, and sometimes a comment about how lurid the published result was, as opposed to a case report detailing the facts only. I knew he would have preferred this, but if anyone was to read it, if _The Strand_ was to publish it, I had to add the details that took his cases from the clinical reports of the Yard’s files to the human interest stories the publication’s reading subscribers demanded.

His reasons for wanting only the facts to be published, I believe, was not the absence of ego. On the contrary--his ego was very strong indeed. But he was also a very private person, and it wasn’t his desire for the world at large to know anything about him, other than that he possessed such a keen analytical mind that he could reduce the most obscure piece of evidence in a spectacularly mysterious puzzle to something less than the most simple of mathematical or chemical equations.

He used his mind as a magician would use his hands. He loved to baffle us lesser humans, often looking down his prominent nose at our fumbling about, even while the answers were immediately before us. With detached amusement, he would show off his deductive reasoning and watch our expressions of chagrin and self-mockery, much as a sword swallower would cut through a scarf thrown onto his sword to demonstrate the sharpness of his blade.

I had hesitated to write about this, because it was life-changing, affecting him deeply. He displayed a vulnerability that frightened me, mainly because it had frightened him. To see such a thing in a man whom I would have thought impervious to such human frailty was enough to alter my own way of thinking, and it is with a nervous heart that I dare to write of it. It will not be for publication, for I plan to address all that I know about it. Such an invasion into the private life of so public a figure is a liberty I don’t take lightly, and even Holmes himself will not know about it. I will write about it as a means of organizing my thoughts, because I, myself, have been losing sleep and have become somewhat obsessed. If I’m to make any sense of it, I must write. Chronicling Holmes’ cases has put me in the habit, and when I can see the facts and details on paper, I can think about it more objectively.

This story must start, I believe, back in October, more than a year ago. I was visiting with Holmes, because my Mary had taken herself off to visit friends in the country, and I had begged off, not wishing to be plagued with country hens gossiping about people I had never known. Better to stay home and hope I’d be invited to come along with Holmes in whatever adventure he was currently pursuing.

However, he had nothing on his plate that morning, and he was in quite an agitated state. It had been two weeks since he’d been asked for his counsel in any of Scotland Yard’s cases, and people had been relatively quiet, as far as their crimes went. Either that, or they were getting smarter and more careful.

But it left Holmes without fuel for that never-resting brain. As I watched him pace the sitting room, glancing out the window with each pass, I questioned him, thinking he was waiting for an expected caller. But he negatived that, and in his voice, I heard the exasperation of a desperate man.

I knew he’d been working in his make-shift laboratory, burning strange chemicals and making even stranger notes in his books. When I paged through those notes that I could barely understand, he told me he was just dabbling, anything to keep busy.

It worried me that he had nothing on which to work. It had always been at times like this that he’d turned to the needle, and I worried that his addiction, which he’d been successful in overcoming, would again find its way back to him. I’d often thought that if he were working for the opposite side of the law, he’d be the best criminal mind around, and as I watched him pacing, I almost wished he’d come up with an urge to hold up the bank, or kidnap the Prince of Wales, or some such thing, rather than resort to a chemical that would ease the boredom of his mind while taking over his life.

But then he’d stopped, frozen at the window, gazing intently out to the street below. As I stood up, intending to join him to see what was so interesting out there, he began to explain what his observations were showing him. There was no doubt in my mind, after all these years, that what he would say would soon be proven correct.

“She’s on her way here, I believe,” Holmes was saying. “Clearly she’s of two minds about it. Either she is going against someone’s wishes, or she’s not sure she wants to tell us her problem.”

I looked out the window to see a woman across the street, waiting for traffic to pass before crossing over to our side. “And how do you arrive at that?” I asked Holmes. “How do you know she’s reluctant to come here? And how do you know she _is_ coming here?”

“Nothing difficult about that, Watson,” he said, his eyes on the woman below. “She keeps looking at this house, so obviously it’s her destination. And the street was free of traffic before that hansom rode by, yet she didn’t cross. As a matter of fact, she’d turned as if to walk back around the corner there. Whatever is bothering her is strong enough to make her reconsider seeking help.”

And as I watched the now obvious indecision clearly showing in the woman, she seemed to square her shoulders as she marched determinedly across the street. I watched her until losing sight as she came too near the house for me to see unless I leaned out the window. Glancing at Holmes, I saw that he was almost rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He lit his pipe as the downstairs bell chimed. Mentally thanking this woman, whomever she may be, for providing my friend with a new problem to work on, I waited for Mrs. Hudson to show her up to Holmes’ rooms.

I wandered back toward the other side of the room, mainly from habit. I liked to make myself unobtrusive when a potential client came to see Holmes; sometimes they were reluctant for people to know what plagued them, and this one seemed shyer than most.

I stood silently as Mrs. Hudson came into the room, waving the woman in before her. As the woman had failed to provide her name to the housekeeper, there were no real introductions to be made, and there was a moment of awkward silence as the four of us stood there.

I was somewhat surprised at what I saw. I had expected an older woman, someone hiding the fact that she sought Holmes’ help against the wishes of her irate husband perhaps, but this one couldn’t have seen thirty years yet, and she had the friendly and open face of a young lady used to meeting new people. She hid most of her black hair under a sedate-looking bonnet, and her grey overcoat gave no hint as to her style of dress. She stood tall for a woman, and her slim build spoke of a life free from too many indulgences. Her smile was wide and showed off good teeth, and she took a few steps toward Holmes, extending her hand readily. So much for my theory of shyness.

But surprisingly, Holmes didn’t move forward to meet her. He ignored her outstretched hand, and staring into her face, he said not a word. I couldn’t define the expression on his face, but I felt at once that he wasn’t happy she came into the room. The lady slowly dropped her hand, at once apologizing for interrupting his day.

“I was so hoping an appointment wouldn’t be necessary, but I can see I was wrong. May I return at a more convenient time?” She had a troubled look on her exotically handsome face as she waited for his reply.

“I regret that I cannot take on any new cases at this time,” he said, earning a shocked gasp from me. “I’m involved in something that requires my every waking hour. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”

She didn’t ask how he knew she’d traveled a long distance. She bowed her head, and I could see that she was really hiding her face, hiding whatever it must have shown. After all my years with Holmes, my observations skills weren’t entirely unused.

“I’m sorry to have taken your time,” she said quickly and quietly. She turned back to the door, where Mrs. Hudson, with a puzzled frown on her face, led her back out to the stairs.

Nonplussed, I moved to the door in their wake, peering out of it to watch their progress down the stairway. The young lady suddenly stopped, gripping the banister tightly. Mrs. Hudson, becoming aware of the stopped footsteps behind her, turned to the woman.

“Are you all right, miss? Maybe you should sit for a spell?”

I watched as the lady straightened, throwing back her shoulders and holding her head higher. “No, thank you. I’m all right.” She waited quietly, and Mrs. Hudson, her doubts still showing on her kindly old face, had no choice but to continue down the steps.

I was taken by surprise when the lady turned suddenly to look back at me. She hadn’t expected her progress down the stairs to be observed, and a quick flicker of alarm, and probably embarrassment, crossed her features before she nodded politely at me. She quickly fled down the stairs and out the door Mrs. Hudson held open. Shaking her head, Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her and returned to her own living room.

I pulled back into Holmes’ sitting room and saw him staring out the window, one hand resting on the pane and looking like a child who’d just lost his puppy. As the intensity on his face increased, I hesitated to interrupt his thoughts to ask him exactly what had just happened here. Why had he turned down this new client without so much as asking what the problem was? What had he seen that I had not?

He finally turned to me. “And what did you make of her?” he asked.

Here was his chance to prove me wrong at every turn. I accepted this as part of his routine. It not only gave him a chance to educate me in deductive reasoning, but I understood by now that I provided him with sort of a slate on which to test his theories.

“I thought she was much younger than she appeared while down on the street,” I began. “She looks a lot more bold and self-assured than her hesitation suggested.” I paused, waiting for him to contradict me. But he merely quirked an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to go on.

“She’s used to meeting people,” I continued. “Although she was hurt by your refusal to shake her hand, she didn’t get angry, as I would have expected a lady of society to be. And her problem is very pressing. She won’t beg you to advise her, but she’s clearly at the end of her rope.”

“All very interesting observations, Watson. I can see you’ve picked up quite a lot, associating with me.” I waited, but he seemed disinclined to explain further.

“So what happened?” I asked. “Why did you chase her away? Do you know who she is?”

“No, I don’t. I do know she’s not a lady of society, as you put it. Her smile upon entering was a performance. She was trying to make a good impression. This is someone who is not in the habit of meeting people, but rather, she spends a good deal of time hiding from them.”

“And how do you arrive at that?”

“It’s not really something one could put into words,” he said, his stare turning inward. “But her smile was false. She was afraid to be here. And my rejection of her hand was no surprise to her. Indeed, she would have been much more surprised if I had taken it. And why do you say her problem is pressing, other than the fact that she came to seek my advice?”

“As she was leaving, she seemed to be taken over by a strong feeling, as if she were going to faint, perhaps. She was startled to see that I had been watching her, and she gathered up her dignity and left rather quickly. I rather fancied that you might have been her last hope, and knowing there would be no help from any source, it might have caused her physical reaction.”

“Yes, it must have shaken her pride that you saw such a weakness in her,” he answered. “She’s someone who has spent the majority of her young life hiding weakness from others. Didn’t you notice her features? Can you not guess her background?”

“A gipsy, no doubt, but one who lives in polite society, I would venture. Her clothing was conservative, and rather well-made.”

“That means nothing, Watson. She could face poverty one week, while the next week will have her running to various financial institutions in order to manage her sudden wealth. And her ‘pressing problem’ might be nothing more than that she’s in fear of her past crimes catching up with her.”

“Is that why you turned her down? Because she’s a gipsy?”

“Yes and no, Watson. I have no prejudices against gipsies, other than to keep one hand firmly on my purse. But you only have to see that face to know this is a young woman to whom things happen. Life will never pass her by.”

“Nevertheless, I’ve never known you to shy away from danger, and especially if there’s an interesting puzzle behind it. Weren’t you just climbing the walls, looking for something to do? You didn’t even hear her out.”

“I was afraid to, Watson.”

His words caused my mind to go blank. _Afraid?_ Holmes?

“What could you possibly have to fear from such a young lady? Were you expecting her to pull a knife from her dress? Coat your hand with a poison of some kind?”

He didn’t answer me, but finally went to sit in the armchair near the fire. It was the most relaxed thing I’d seen him do all morning. Yet he wasn’t relaxed, not to my eyes. I knew him well enough to see, and almost feel, the tension coiled within his deceptively still form.

I reluctantly returned to the chair I’d been sitting in before he’d brought my attention to the window. He wouldn’t tell me what was bothering him until he was good and ready; this much I knew.

I began to read again the study I took from his bookshelf, but my mind wouldn’t stay focused upon it. I saw again and again in my mind the sight of her saddened face at Holmes’ rejection of her and her case, and I pondered uselessly over her sudden swoon on the stairway.

And I began to turn over and over, in my befuddled mind, what there could be about this woman who’d caused my dearest friend to run for cover.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

I don’t often write of events in my life, but I will take a page from my dear friend Watson’s book and try to put words to this unsettling affair.

When I first saw her approach Baker Street from around the corner of the Square, I kept my eye on her, my intuition telling me she was coming to see me, that she had trouble with which she thought I could help her. I had been happy about the prospect of what could hopefully be an interesting riddle to solve, as my restlessness of the past several days was beginning to take its toll.

I was actually heartened to see her hesitate, now that she was almost here, for it could only mean her trouble was serious, and that it was difficult for her to come forward. Therefore, it would be a matter worthy of my attention, and I could finally feed my endless lust for a puzzle to solve.

I was moved to admiration as I watched her mentally fortify herself, and I silently applauded her determination, which showed up so clearly in her stride as she finally crossed the street. As I waited for Mrs. Hudson to show her up, I nodded for Watson to venture forth his opinion of her. He’s my favorite sounding board and student, and I was glad he was here this morning. I had grown used to his company, and was finding it somewhat irritating to be alone as I pondered life’s little mysteries, while he sat at home with his wife.

But I had a bad moment when Mrs. Hudson showed her in. I could do nothing but stare into her dark eyes as she sized me up quickly. There was something about her that grabbed at me, and I wasn’t used to feeling at such a loss when dealing with anyone, much less a prospective client.

She must have felt something of my discomfort, for she smiled brilliantly and came closer, raising her hand to shake mine. Still, I couldn’t move, couldn’t think clearly, and I stood there, wishing for a safe haven into which I could retreat from the sudden and overpowering allure in her eyes.

I would no sooner insult a lady than I would jump out of the window next to me, but I hadn’t the presence of mind to take her hand. I remember mumbling a few words about my inability to help her, then tried to put her out of my mind as she left the room.

I couldn’t help but look out the window as she left. There was no longer any hesitation in her steps as she hurriedly crossed Baker Street, heading back to the corner from which she’d entered.

What have I done? Worse than having no problems to work out, I had driven something very interesting and probably exciting from my life, and all because of my misogyny.

Worse off than when I awoke this morning, I forced myself to sit before the fire, willing myself to relax legs that would rather have chased after her. I’ve always known myself well, and I knew the days ahead would be difficult, as I would worry my mind with unanswered questions much as a mongrel would worry a soup bone.

I hadn’t even learned her name.

I know my behavior puzzled Watson. He had just remarked upon my frustration in not having any work to do, and I know he was concerned that I would seek temporary refuge in cocaine. He needn’t have worried—the addiction was purely psychological and I had removed that particular monkey from my back a long time ago. But I also realized that unless I could come up with something that would occupy me, I would have no choice but to wonder fruitlessly about the young woman I’d upset and chased away.

Mrs. Hudson brought up a tray of lunch for both Watson and myself, and as we sat at the table, he began to tell me what he’d been reading before the mysterious lady appeared. I could tell he was groping for conversation, and it touched me that he would worry about my peace of mind. And, though he tried to hide it, I knew he was hoping I would better explain my irrational behavior.

_Sorry, old bean_ , I thought to myself. _But I can’t explain to you what I cannot explain to myself._

As I toyed with the food for which I wasn’t really hungry, I hoped that whatever had brought her here wasn’t something that could be resolved only with my help. It is without ego that I recognize my skills in solving people’s problems. So I sat there, torturing myself with various scenarios in which my failure to come to her aid caused her misfortune, and possibly even death.

Knowing what I did about gipsies, I prodded at the open wound I had caused myself in turning her away. It must have taken all of her strength to come to me for help, for her very upbringing would have taught her to avoid non-gipsies with every last breath. For her to seek my counsel anyway only pointed out to me that she was at her wits’ end.

And I had turned her away, with a lame explanation I knew she saw right through. I could still clearly see the look on her face that appeared when she realized I was not going to return her greeting. Before she’d hidden her features from me, I saw the hurt I had caused by rejecting her, and the years of pain she’d known from countless people who were not of her ilk. And yet, there had been a defiant pride as well; she was not ashamed to be a gipsy. I suppose the shame she’d tried to hide was the shame she felt for the rest of us. No doubt it was well-deserved.

The next few days found me almost praying for Inspector Lestrade or Hopkins to come to me with a new problem. Or, at the very least, that some theory would introduce itself to my mind, causing me to race to my lab and my chemicals. Anything to keep from obsessing over the woman I would never see again. Such a situation was far worse than injecting chemicals into my bloodstream, no matter what Watson would say about it.

I found a bit of relief eventually. Giving up, I contacted those less-than-desirable characters on whom I heavily relied for information about society’s outcasts. But sadly, my relief was short-lived. The reports came back that there was nothing unusual happening on the gipsy front, and indeed, they seemed to be packing up to move on.

I reminded myself of her conservative and moderately expensive clothing. Such attire would be unusual in the gipsy camps, and so I decided she must be part of mainstream London. When I had told her I was sorry she had traveled so far in vain, I was merely fishing for information. It had been a guess, and she hadn’t risen to the bait. Most people would jump to repair an incorrect assumption, but, again, it would most likely be against her nature to do so. The less information we ‘townies’ knew about them, the better they slept.

So, how to find out more about her? I had almost nothing to go on, and I again cursed myself for not hearing her story before I completely lost my head. I was just pulling on my greatcoat and reaching for my hat when Watson entered through the door. I invited him to accompany me to the Square, where I interviewed another disreputable associate. Tom practically lived on the street, and I doubted anyone could pass through the Square without his knowing about it.

At last, now I was getting somewhere. After I described the woman, even down to the color of the toggles on her coat, he was able to assure me that he’d seen her.

“It woulda been a strain not to,” he drawled in his lazy way. “She attracted a lot of attention. Or rather,” he added laconically, “the gent she was running away from attracted the attention. She was quiet as a lamb, though not as meek.”

“Why was she running from him?” I wondered if this happened immediately before her decision to seek my help. It wounded my pride that it would have been a matter of convenience; the idea she had not come to see me because she valued my opinion, but rather because I happened to be nearby was a concept I decided I’d better not dwell upon.

“He accused her of stealing his purse. He was holding onto her arm while yelling for a constable at the top of his lungs.”

“How was it that she wasn’t arrested, then?”

“She got away from him, she did. The little hellcat turned on him. She grabbed the hand that was holding her prisoner and bit him, then followed up with a bone-crunching kick to his shin. As he stooped over, not knowing if he should grab his bleeding hand or his throbbing leg, she brought her knee up sharp, and I could hear his nose break from all the way over here.”

I couldn’t help but grin at the mental image of the young woman fighting off her assailant. A proper English lady wouldn’t have done it, even if she were of a mind to do so. Such things simply weren’t done—it would have caused a scene.

“And where was the constable when all this was happening?” Could it be that her hesitation in crossing the street to see me was her fear that I would have turned her over to the law? Had she escaped jail only by seconds?

“He finally made his way over. She was still there, just waiting. Surprised me, it did. I woulda thought she escaped the man in order to flee, but she stood there, primly patting her hair in place and adjusting her coat where it had come unbuttoned. No fear.”

“I suppose she simply didn’t want to be handled by him,” I suggested.

“Well, he shoulda known better than to grab her like that,” he agreed. “You don’t treat a gipsy that way if you want to survive the encounter. I wonder she didn’t pull out a knife for him.”

“What happened then?” Watson asked. I turned to him, startled. I had quite forgotten he was there.

“Well, the constable came over, and the gipsy stood quietly while the fat man told his story. He got to the part about her assault on him, and he filled it in with so many lies that I was almost tempted to step in and set him straight. But I was intrigued, so I just watched. All the while, she was patiently waiting, as if she was sure she’d get her chance to speak her piece.”

“And did she?”

“Not a bit of it. You know these police. Not a one of ‘em would sit still to hear a gipsy’s pack of lies. Shame, though,” he added wistfully. “I’d have liked to hear her side of it, and see if she’d tell the truth. I think it’s against their religion to tell the truth, you know. There weren’t any other gipsies around, now that I think back. That’s strange.”

“She was alone?”

“Sure was. Could be she’s outcast. She was dressed better’n most of ‘em. She must have something else goin’ on for herself. Maybe some rich bloke is takin’ care of ‘er.”

“What happened next?”

“The bobby made some noise about taking ‘em both in for their statements, and the fat guy started backsliding fast. He didn’t want nothing to do with anything official. I s’pose he just thought the constable would make her give him back his purse and that would be the end of it. But when the copper asked her for it, she shook her head, still keeping quiet. I never did know if she took it or not. She wouldn’t say anything.”

“And then?”

“Well, the copper made a move to help them both along toward the station, and, quick as a wink, she ducked under his arm and disappeared into the crowd. I never seen anyone move so fast. While the cop was tryin’ to decide whether or not to chase after her, the fat man took off in the other direction. Since he couldn’t move as fast, the cop chased him down—didn’t take but a few steps—and last I seen, they went toward the station.”

“And you didn’t see where the woman went?”

“I saw something moving quick in the distance, toward the lane over there, but that’s all.”

“Thank you, Tom,” I said, handing him a few coins. “I don’t suppose you know which officer was patrolling that day?”

“Yeah, it was that lame-brained McKelton. ‘E’s one that should never leave the station without his superiors taking him by the hand. But I guess the smart ones move up from foot patrol too quickly, eh?”

“McKelton. Thanks again, Tom. Come along, Watson.”

“To the station?”

“You have the makings of a brilliant investigative mind, Watson. That’s precisely where we’re headed. I want to find that ‘fat man’ and see what he’ll be willing to tell me. He had to have a reason to want to avoid official prosecution of the one who’d allegedly stolen his purse.”

“Well, perhaps he has an outstanding warrant.”

“If that were the case, I rather doubt he’d have called for the constable in the first place. We’ll no doubt find out that what was stolen, along with his money, was something he wouldn’t want his wife, or his employer, or especially the law, to know about. I’d like to know what really happened to that purse.”

“You don’t think the woman took it?”

“Not if I know the first thing about gipsies,” I answered. “I don’t believe she’d stick around for the constable once she’d secured her freedom if she _had_ stolen it. She must have known she wouldn’t have escaped imprisonment.”

“So, her ethics stop short of breaking a constable’s nose, does it?”

“I think it would depend upon the number of witnesses,” I said, smiling. Things were looking up. I now had something I could work with, and if the police were even a fraction as helpful as Tom had been, I’d interview the ‘fat man’ this very afternoon.

Luck was with me. When I entered the small station, I found Clark behind the desk. He and I have had many occasions to cooperate with each other, and our mutual respect and admiration stood me in good stead. Clark was only too willing to show me the logbooks, where all incidents were reported. I searched the pages for the day in question, and found a reference to McKelton’s report.

“Might I see the file on this one?” I asked Clark, turning the book so he could see it.

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes; it’ll just take me a minute to locate it. Mr. Gregson,” he called, summoning his underling. “Watch the desk, will you? I’ll just be a moment. Right this way, Mr. Holmes.”

Watson and I followed him, and it was without ego that I noticed the looks thrown my way. It was something that would be cheerfully and reverently discussed at tea, I knew; my presence in this small substation, they would say, must mean something exciting and important was happening. I used this attitude for my own purposes. I was certain I could find whatever answers I sought, and it put a bounce in my step.

Clark waved us to take seats at the conference table, and he left the room, returning almost immediately with a file folder in his hand. “Here it is, Mr. Holmes. If you can read McKelton’s writing, better for you. It hasn’t been set to type yet.”

“Thank you, Mr. Clark.” I was happy to see him leave the room, leaving Watson and me to peruse at our leisure. The only reference to my mysterious visitor was the phrase, ‘young gipsy girl’. I hadn’t expected much help there, Tom already having told me she hadn’t said a word.

I found the name and address of the ‘fat man’. He was one Laurence Trevor, currently residing in Whitechapel. I made a note of the address, and, glancing at the information posted about his employment, calculated I’d have to wait at least another two hours to see him at home. I glanced at the employer he’d listed, but decided against visiting him at work. He worked for a tailor, and his position suggested that he probably sold accessories, rather than actually have a hand in tailoring the garments. A menial position, and he would not like his superiors to know the law was interested in him. It might prove a convenient threat if he proved sluggish about supplying any information to me.

Having nothing better to do, I dragged Watson with me to the train station, catching a cab and heading out to Whitechapel. We could soak up the atmosphere as we waited. I wanted to watch Trevor before he knew I was there, to pick up what clues I could.

As it turned out, we didn’t have but a fraction of the time I’d thought we’d have to spot Trevor. By Tom’s description, it could only have been him coming down the road, his nose bandaged, and we backed into the lane at the middle of the road, allowing him to pass us by. I could pick up nothing in his manner to alert anyone to something furtive and illicit happening, and so I braced myself for disappointment. This could all come to nothing, after all.

Just as Trevor turned to enter the gate at the front of the house I had already determined was his, I called out and introduced Watson and myself to him. His eyes immediately darted all around, as if to seek escape. Feeling like I had struck pay dirt, I moved around him, effectively blocking off the path to his house. Watson kept to his front, and unless Trevor wanted to be obvious, he was trapped between us.

“I understand your purse was taken from you last week, Mr. Trevor,” I stated. “Why did you think it was the young gipsy woman who’d taken it?”

“Are you here on her behalf?” he asked indignantly. “She stole it, and I don’t care who she hires to argue for her! It’s mine, and I mean to have it back!”

“So determined, and yet so reluctant to follow proper legal procedure. It makes one wonder...” I stood quietly, sure he would begin volunteering all sorts of information to justify his outrage.

“It does no good to bring charges against a gipsy!” he stated. “They muddle things up so horribly that judges just throw out the cases in exasperation! I’ll have to retrieve my property myself! If you represent that little thief, you’d do her a service by convincing her to return it. If it’s the money she wants, she can have it. I didn’t have any more than a few notes in there, anyway.”

“As I suspected, it wasn’t the money you were worried about,” I said in as friendly a manner as I could. “What else was in there?”

“Just some personal papers. They won’t mean a thing to her, but they’re important to me! I must have them back!”

“Where did this theft take place?”

“Didn’t she tell you all about it? You are representing her, are you not?”

I dodged his question while feeding into his preconceived notions about people he didn’t seem to understand very well. “You don’t expect her to tell me everything, do you? You know how they are...”

Instantly, his brow relaxed, his shoulders lost some of their tension. It seems I had made a friend. “Yes, well...I was at the station, just getting off the train from Bedford. A band of gipsies almost ran me over, and as they apologized, brushing off my coat and fixing my hat for me, one of them, this gipsy girl, made off with my purse. It’s an old dodge of theirs, you know. Keep their victim occupied while rifling his pockets. When they moved off, she was going in the opposite direction. I called out to her, and she took off running. A clear sign of guilt. The others in the group just stood there, looking at us. I don’t even think they knew what she did, or they would have run, too.”

“Did you see her in the crowd of people around you?”

“No, but she must have been there.”

“Perhaps she wasn’t a part of that group at all?”

“Nonsense. They always travel in a pack. Just tell her I want the papers; she can keep the rest.”

“Alas, Mr. Trevor,” I said, “I don’t know where to find her. Haven’t you seen any of them around?”

“No, I don’t normally associate with such riff-raff. They shouldn’t be allowed out in public without police watching them, you ask me. And how is it you don’t know how to contact one of your clients?”

“She’s not my client,” I finally admitted, now that I’d gotten all the information he could possibly give me. “I was merely curious about what happened. Good day, Mr. Trevor.”

He sputtered impotently as Watson and I made our way out of his front garden. “You had no business questioning me!” he yelled at our backs. “I should have the law on you for your deceit!”

“Yes, Mr. Trevor,” I agreed. “Why don’t you do that? Let’s involve the law in this, by all means.”

I didn’t have to look at him to know he was wearing a look of injured fury. But my work here was done. Now I wondered why the woman would seek my help because of this. It didn’t seem such a problem, as Trevor probably wouldn’t be able to find her. So, if it wasn’t Trevor that put such determination in her to come to me, what could it be?

I had a dismal feeling I was right back to square one.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

My heart had been light on the evening of which I now write. After many months of watching Holmes wear himself ragged with searching for any information he could get about that cursed gipsy woman, I had finally managed to coerce him into joining my wife and me for a night at the ballet.

It did him good, I think. He appeared to enjoy the ballet, if only for the brilliantly orchestrated music, and he was more verbose during dinner than he’d been for a very long time. He even had Mary laughing at some of his quips, and that took some doing--she was nearly as intense about everything as he was.

But it had all come apart on our journey homeward. Our cab had been making its way down Regent Street, and we were again discussing the differences between Russian and British conductors, when we had been unpleasantly jolted as our horse reared, startled by something that had crossed the road in front of it.

I looked out at the scene, but my vision was impaired both by the darkness around us and Holmes’ shoulder, which blocked most of the window. But, quick as a flash, he’d gotten out of the cab, and then I could see the startled face of the waif that had scurried into our cab’s path.

She stood staring, as if too shocked to move, and I could see her face clearly under the gaslight of the post almost immediately above her. It was the same face that had first appeared under a modest hat and wearing a brave smile. Now, the hair flowed freely around her shoulders, the sedate overcoat was gone, and she looked as though her wardrobe had not been her most pressing concern.

By the time I registered this quick image of her, she’d turned and disappeared, Holmes in hot pursuit. Not wishing to abandon my wife, who’d wisely stayed in the cab, I waited anxiously for Holmes to return. Hearing the commotion from the horse and our driver, I looked forward to see a rather robust man pulling himself up from off the street.

“Mary, stay here. There’s someone up there.”

I moved to the front of the cab, where the driver was trying to help the man who’d fallen before the wheels of our conveyance. He’d come within a finger’s breadth of being run down by the horse. The man didn’t seem to want help; he impatiently waved away the driver, peering intently down the alleyway where Holmes had run. Mopping his brow with a handkerchief, he strove to catch his breath before turning and heading down Regent Street in the direction from which we had just come. It was all too unsettling, and I looked into the darkness at the end of the alley, wishing Holmes would reappear so we could all be on our way.

I paced on the street-side of the cab, until Mary blew out an exasperated breath. “Why don’t you just go and see for yourself, John? I’ll be all right here with the driver.”

I needed no further urging. Holmes had been known to disregard his own safety while on the trail of a fleeing suspect or clue; he was worse than a bloodhound. After making sure the driver would be extra-vigilant, I trotted to the alley and carefully ventured into it.

Hoping the tall shadow I saw in the distance was none other than Holmes, I cautiously moved toward it, and met my friend as he cut short the distance between us on his way back.

“No trace, Watson,” he said moodily. “I searched every doorway, every recess...even the dust bins along the way. Where could she have gone so quickly? I’d like to think my senses aren’t yet failing me.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t this alley into which she fled,” I suggested. “She may still be hanging around the street, waiting for us to leave. And is that who I thought it was?”

“None other, I’m sure. She doesn’t seem to want my counsel any longer.”

As we made our way back to the cab, he kept throwing glances all around. It pained me to see it; it had been nearly half a year since we’d first become aware of this woman, and all this time I had watched Holmes lose health and sleep with worrying about her. He had not been able to make anything of the alleged theft of Laurence Trevor’s purse, other than that the man was still threatening Holmes that he meant to have his property returned. He simply would not believe Holmes was not her agent.

Trying to take his mind from the gipsy, I told him about the man we’d almost run down. He appeared interested, but then his mind seemed to wander away upon learning that I hadn’t noticed much about the man in question.

All Holmes’ sources in the streets of the city could not tell him any more than the little he’d already learned from Trevor. The ethereal woman was simply not to be found, and no one seemed to know anything about her. To have her appear again, so suddenly and unexpectedly, just to run off again...it was a cruel twist of Fate. All the buoyancy I’d seen tonight in my friend was gone. I could not feel kindly toward this strange gipsy woman.

I took pains to spend more time in Holmes’ company in the next few days, until I could ascertain that he was no threat to himself. With a minimum of prodding from myself and Mrs. Hudson, he might remember to take a meal now and again. There wasn’t much either of us could do about getting him to sleep at night, but I trusted that he could only go so far before his body would simply collapse, forcing much-needed rest upon him. Meanwhile, there dawned new hope one morning soon after that ill-fated cab ride. Inspector Lestrade came calling, seeking help with a case that had been troubling the Yard these past five months.

Although he was somewhat upset that he’d not been called in earlier, while the case was still fresh, I could see that Holmes was pleased to have something with which to occupy his mind. He eagerly listened to Lestrade’s summary of what had happened so far.

“The jewels and deeds had been put there, but we can’t figure out why, since we would have expected someone to retrieve them right away. That they’re still there, unmolested...it only succeeds in baffling us. Why would such wealth have been hidden there, in such an obviously temporary safe? Why was it then abandoned? We’re talking about almost a quarter of a million pounds worth of jewels and property.”

“And how long before the building is razed?” Holmes asked the Inspector.

“According to what the public knows, it’s to be torn down at the end of the fall, just before winter sets in. But in reality, plans are for the workers to begin initial preparations for its destruction no later than next month. The safe would have been destroyed at that time. We’re assuming that whomever is after that stolen property doesn’t know that.”

“And why do you make such an assumption?” Holmes shot back. “If you’re wrong, what then?”

“We’re not entirely incompetent,” Lestrade replied icily. “We do have it watched. It’s just that we had expected to find someone poking around much earlier. All this time has gone by, and nothing.”

“Perhaps the would-be new owner of these trinkets is incommunicado. Most of the known safecrackers in these parts are incarcerated, and you’re welcome, by the way. But if it’s someone who’s planning to come here only for this purpose, you don’t have much to go on, do you?”

“Which is why we’ve come to you, Holmes. I’m counting on you to see what I haven’t, and to deduce what I can’t. We do know the safe can’t be blasted open without damaging the paperwork and jewels inside it. It’s a very complicated set-up.”

“That building was once used as a gentlemen’s club, was it not?”

“Yes, years ago. It had fallen into disrepair since the club had been made defunct. We’ve already looked into those who ever had access to the safe, and, of the three, one is in America. He went there after the club closed, and is now working in the same capacity in a Boston club. The second one is in the south of France, and hasn’t had anything to do with the building itself for at least eight years. The third is the owner, who died four years ago. That’s how the property wound up in the hands of the company who had financed the loan which purchased it in the first place. There was an outstanding balance that the owner’s estate couldn’t quite cover, and so they simply repossessed it. That’s where we got the combination for the safe, as well as the procedure to be used before the combination would do any good.”

“And why are the valuables still in the safe?”

“They aren’t. We substituted fakes for the real jewels and deeds, and the real loot is now in our property department at the Yard. Only a select few of us know that. We’ve been very careful about leaking any information about it.”

“And the corpse that alerted you to the situation...you have identified him?”

“Yes, we know him to be James Gregory Dorian, lately of Bedfordshire. Killed with a blunt instrument that fractured his skull, but we have no suspects to chase down. I rather doubt you’ll be able to help us there, however, as the case is five months old. We still have the little bit of evidence we found at the scene, and you’re welcome to go over it all, but what I’m hoping for is your insight into the puzzle of why that safe hasn’t been compromised yet. In a couple of months, the safe will exist no longer.”

“You’re certain that Dorian wasn’t trying to break into the safe?”

“Yes, all evidence points to him having left those things in the safe, nothing suggesting he was trying to retrieve them. He had been seen carrying packages into the building. The description of those packages fits what we found in the safe.”

Holmes lit his pipe and stared at nothing while looking out the window. Lestrade picked up his hat, preparing to leave. “Unless you’d like to see the evidence, I’ll be on my way. I trust you’ll want to conduct your own investigation?”

“You know me too well, Inspector,” Holmes said, grinning. “Will I be able to get into the building in question?”

“I’ll see to it.”

Lestrade left, and I quietly watched Holmes brood. It was unusual for him to sit here when there were crimes scenes to look at, people to question, evidence to sift through. Could it be so elementary that he’d already figured it out? Or, and I confess that this was my bigger worry, was it his obsession with that mysterious gipsy that rendered him immobile?

“Watson,” came his voice suddenly, startling me. “When a gentlemen’s club closes, what happens to the records of the members?”

“Seems to me they would be destroyed, wouldn’t they? What reason would anyone have to keep them?”

“Sounds like a question for Mycroft.” He energetically leaped from his chair and strode to the desk, where he penned a message. I went downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson to summon Jeremy, the lad from next door upon whom we relied to deliver messages for us.

By the time I’d returned with Jeremy in tow, Holmes had the message ready for delivery. Jeremy ran off with it, knowing he’d be rewarded well for being quick. When he returned with the reply, not thirty minutes later, Holmes reached for his overcoat.

“Come along, Watson! We have work to do!”

We walked along the road to the Square, where we hailed a cab for a quick ride to the club where Mycroft seemed to spend all his waking hours. I’ve never been quite comfortable in Mycroft’s presence, always feeling he was looking down his nose at me, but in quite a different way than his brother sometimes did. Holmes did it with affection; Mycroft seemed to want to scrape me off his boots. It was also a bit frightening how much he appeared to know about everyone who was anyone in London, but it was thanks to this that he was most helpful to Holmes on occasion.

“Yes, I was a member until it closed down. It was my primary den, you might say. What former member do you seek?”

“Have you ever heard of Laurence Trevor?” Holmes asked him. “He would have been about thirty years old when the club closed.”

“Oh, yes, I know him. Never had much use for him. Not bright enough to play a decent game of chess, not quite stupid enough to be forgiven for it. He only became a member because it was expected of him. I believe all those employed by his firm were members.”

“His firm?

“Yes, Bellamy and Bradstock, Ltd. Import-Export concern. They’re still in business, by the way. Whether your Laurence Trevor is one of them, I wouldn’t think so. He was held in contempt by B and B’s higher-ups. Seemed he was ambitious, but not well-skilled.”

“No, he’s no longer with them,” Holmes confirmed. “Now he works in a shop, selling men’s shirts and ascots.”

“Now, there are only a few reasons that a man would leave a prestigious firm to take employment a young boy would better have,” Mycroft said, nodding to Holmes. “He was probably let go, and with no references. Might he have been caught doing something normally frowned upon?”

“Do you really want to know? Or are you just giving me hints?”

“You know I couldn’t care any less about this matter. I’m merely showing off, you know.”

Holmes grinned, clapping Mycroft on the back, and we left him to his chessboard. It was refreshing to see the bounce in Holmes’ step again. I began to relax as we made our way to the firm of Bellamy and Bradstock, Ltd.

I should have known better than to assume that working on another of Scotland Yard’s little mysteries would have been enough to take his mind off that confounded ghost of a gipsy.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

There are certain events which happen in a man’s life that work to restore his faith that a new day will bring a new hope. I admit to cynicism, and I don’t often consider that a fault. What some call a cynic, I call a realist, and I feel perfectly justified in being among those ranks.

It isn’t always an easy road to travel, however, and when depression comes over me, I don’t have a reservoir of optimism from which to draw that would allow me to overcome it. I’m a victim to my moods, and, I fear, the people around me must suffer as well. I was not entirely unaware of Watson’s concern for my mental health, and my brooding and withdrawal is merely an attempt to prevent my melancholy from infecting him. It doesn’t always work, but as he so strongly wishes for my return to the world of the living, he is prepared to see what I choose to show him.

Thus, I continued to eat, lest he be inspired to fuss over me like a mother hen. I pretended to be refreshed after a good night’s sleep so he wouldn’t be inclined to drug my tea with sedatives. I fear I can be short with him only so often before he removes himself completely from my company in self-defense. The only thing worse than feeling this empty would be to feel this empty in my empty rooms. I value his presence here; the mumbling non sequiturs he offers as he reads the newspapers...the incorrect and thoroughly amusing observations he makes after reading of the latest criminal folly...and his habit of reassigning others’ personal histories based upon what he thought he saw in their manner and clothing. He always forgets to look at a man’s knees and fingers when trying to guess his occupation.

There came a time when even I believed I would put away my need to find answers to the teasing little mystery that began for me months ago, when I allowed that woman to enter and leave my life so quickly. I discovered that if I forced myself, I could forget all about her, and for long periods at a time. And so, I allowed Watson to drag me along to the ballet.

I wasn’t such a grudging companion; the music was acceptable, though almost entirely unmotivated. The company was engaging, and I quite enjoyed myself. I was idly looking out the window of the cab on our homeward journey, and my eyes sharpened on the sudden apparition of bright, swirling colors against the darkened evening backdrop. Almost before I could register what I was seeing, our cab was jarred as the horse reared. The woman who’d run blindly into the street had alarmed the skittish mare, and she stopped, turning toward the cab to see what damage she’d caused.

It was then that I saw her face. It was only the face that had haunted my thoughts these past months, and every detail was there for me to remember. She looked different, granted; her features were more sharply defined...her hair fell untethered around her face; she seemed much more slender than I recalled...but there was no doubt in my mind whom I was seeing. I could see that she knew me as well; in that time-stopping flash of an instant before she took flight, I saw what could only be alarm in her eyes as they met mine. Then she was gone.

I wasted no time in pursuing her. I was aware that there was someone else upsetting the horse and driver, but I was compelled to follow her. As her shadowy form blended with the dark shapes of the alley across the way, I listened for the sound of her footsteps, but my own drowned them out. I paused momentarily, straining my eyes in the dark, concentrating my ears on the night sounds, but could neither see nor hear anything that told of her escape route.

Frustrated, I methodically began searching the doorways, upsetting cats, rats, and the occasional homeless tramp. There were no exits I could see that would convey her to a safe haven, no dustbin could provide her with enough room to hide. The only way out was at the end of the alley, and even a fleeing cat couldn’t have reached that distance in the time it took for me to enter the alley. And yet I could not find her.

Hearing a cautious footstep behind me, I wheeled around, only to see Watson’s shape nearing. Giving up, knowing I would be alarming both Watson and his wife, I returned to the street, bitter for the teasing glimpse of my greatest mystery, dangled so tantalizingly before me only to be snatched away before I could think.

I listened to Watson describe what little he could about the woman’s pursuer and his reluctance to take issue with the cab driver who’d nearly cut him off in his prime. It brought to my mind at once Laurence Trevor, who’d unsuccessfully chased after this woman before, also with a definite reluctance to have help from the authorities. It could be no other. How many beefy men with such a fear of the law could be chasing the same woman?

My intention to interview the recalcitrant Mr. Trevor was put on hold, however, as I was engaged by Lestrade to offer my point of view to the Yard’s latest little problem. It was soon to become clear to me that I could be perfectly justified in dividing my attentions between the elusive woman and the mystery of the abandoned safe, as they seemed to be connected. When Mycroft confirmed my suspicions that very afternoon, I was almost disappointed with the lack of challenge in this case. Obviously, Mr. Trevor had gone to see Mr. Dorian in Bedford, where the two had words about what Dorian was planning to hide. Trevor could have guessed where he would hide them, being already familiar with the club’s safe. A little more digging would no doubt prove to me that Dorian had also been a member of that club, and was probably where the two men had first become acquainted.

There had to have been some sort of document Trevor had come away from this meeting with, and he’d put that document into his purse. Returning on the train to Whitechapel, he’d been accosted by that band of gipsies, whom he blamed for the loss of that all-important paper.

It had to have been the combination and instructions needed to open the safe. However, if those vital instructions had been taken from Dorian, how would he later have been able to place his precious cargo into the safe, mere moments before he’d been murdered?

It would do well for me to find out what connections Dorian might have had with someone in the south of France, or perhaps a Boston Gentlemen’s club. It was likely Dorian hadn’t known Trevor possessed such a document; if he’d known, wouldn’t he have chosen to stash the stolen merchandise somewhere else? Not at his home, if he had any reason to believe the premises would be searched. But surely, somewhere other than a building about to be destroyed.

It was difficult for me to accept the possibility that Trevor could have been Dorian’s murderer. He didn’t seem the sort of man for it, and if he’d lost the combination to the safe, it wasn’t likely he would have killed Dorian before forcing him to reopen the safe first.

No, there had to be another hand at work here. Someone killed Dorian, not knowing that the combination to the safe was out somewhere in the streets of London, probably hidden as well as the gipsy woman herself.

As I waited for my special informants to bring me reports about the nebulous and addicting woman, I pursued my theories with the idea that Trevor wasn’t so much Dorian’s assailant, but rather his partner in crime. This led me to believe Trevor’s former ties to the import/export firm, which had later discharged him, might prove to be the starting point from which this heist originated.

All my chessmen in place finally, I informed Lestrade of my findings. I didn’t explain to the surprised Inspector why I freely provided him with the means to solve the case instead of following up on it myself. He didn’t quibble; on the contrary, he was most eager to gather credit for the case’s successful conclusion, and so did not press for an explanation from me.

How could I have explained to Lestrade why I wanted to wash my hands of this entire matter? He probably wouldn’t have believed what I could tell him. To admit to a weakness of which I had gladly allowed all others to believe I was immune? To have become so completely obsessed with a woman whose name I didn’t even know?

In any event, with Lestrade able to prove finally that Dorian and Trevor had used information from Trevor’s former employers about the shipment of jewels and deeds expected, and their plans to intercept that shipment and hide it until such time as it could be safely recovered, he was also able to point to the real murderer of Dorian. It was the chap who’d been awaiting his chance for riches while hiding in the south of France. All surviving parties now facing the dock, I was eased of at least a small amount of my guilt regarding my gipsy woman.

Her pursuer was facing a long prison term, and there would be no further need for her to hide. Remembering the changes I’d seen in my brief glance at her before she fled, I surmised that Trevor had caused her to change many things about her lifestyle in order to escape him. I found myself hoping to find her and put her fears to rest. It was the least I could do, having refused to help her at the beginning, when she had come to me.

Having nothing else to occupy my time, I relentlessly pursued any leads I could find. Still, it took more than a week’s time before one of my trusted street urchins brought me the information I so impatiently awaited.

She had been spotted in the South Bank area, kipping down by the Waterloo bridge, and my heart lurched as I understood the implications. This was an area polite society avoided on principal--those who valued their lives and goods. If one could walk through the lanes of that neighborhood without injury or theft, one could reasonably assume he had found the secret to invisibility.

It was an area free from hope, from any ideas of a brighter future. If this is now what she considered haven, my fears of her lifestyle hadn’t even come close.

I wasted no time in tracking her down. As I was leaving my rooms, I met Watson on his way up. Waving for him to accompany me, I wordlessly left 221B and made my way up the street, to where I flagged down a driver.

Watson, seasoned campaigner that he was, didn’t besiege me with questions. By my brooding silence, he correctly assumed it all had to do with the gipsy woman, and, once we’d left our cab, he saved his breath for the vigorous pace I’d set as I searched for her. I could sense his trepidation as we entered the less desirous shadows, but, stout chap that he is, he didn’t remark upon it; he simply tried his best to keep up.

My reflexes and preoccupation with the woman worked at keeping us free from molestation from these unwanted citizens of society, residing in these dark corners and alleys, and I concentrated upon my quarry. I had faith in my source, and she must be here somewhere.

A hurried consultation with yet another of my questionable acquaintances, and I was pointed toward a dark alley at the end of the lane. I entered slowly, suddenly certain I was going to find her at last. But what a travesty her life must have become, that she would make her home among the rats and opium addicts hereabouts.

The only plausible sanctuary from the elements that might be had at the end of the alley was a recessed doorway, but I could see nothing in it except a pile of scattered newspapers. About to turn away in disappointment, a sudden hunch caused me to look more closely.

I have never really fancied myself a writer, so I make no excuse that the paltry words I write fail to describe my despair at seeing the unconscious face that lay hidden beneath the newspapers. Moving the papers aside, I studied her, slightly mollified at seeing evidence of her continued breathing. Under a few smudges, I could see the past several months had indeed been hard on her; her cheekbones were severely pronounced, her lips cracked and tender-looking...as my eyes traveled down her neck, I could see the clear outline of her collarbone.

Glancing at Watson, who’d appeared at my side, I pushed away the rest of the newspapers and gently eased her shoulders up until I could brace my arm around her. I lifted her into my arms, and standing, I was further dismayed to find it was no effort. Knowing my physical limitations, I estimated she was perhaps two stone underweight.

I quickly began to retrace my steps, Watson following behind, hopefully covering our rear. I never hesitated in my steps; she would return with us to 221B, where Watson would assist me in leading her back to health. Gipsies were notorious in their refusal of conventional medical treatment at hospitals. That society would frown upon a single woman residing, however briefly, in a bachelor’s quarters never entered my mind. Let Mrs. Hudson worry about such details...with the rent I paid for my rooms, I knew she would forgive me much.

It could have been guilt that caused me to take such actions. It could merely have been a logical conclusion to all the energy I had expended worrying about her and what had happened to her as a result of my lack of foresight and consideration in having rejected her in her time of need. No matter why I did it...I can blame no one but myself for what followed.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

It was with resignation that I followed after Holmes one night as he took us down the quiet streets toward the dingy areas of the City that I blissfully never before had occasion to visit. He seemed impervious to the danger around us, and so, naturally, I worried enough about our safety for the both of us.

He found her; it might have been better all around if he hadn’t. Surely time would have cured him of his addiction of her, as it had once cured him of his cocaine addiction. I can no longer think of him as fearing women; not after seeing the look on his transparent face upon his discovery of her.

I hailed another cab, and he carried her inside it. It worried me that, although there was enough room to sit her between us on the seat, he held her on his lap, holding her as if he feared she would sprout wings and fly off. As he carried her up the steps of 221B, I dared not voice any objections. This was a man on a mission and, without his saying so, I knew he fully expected to nurse her back to health in his flat. Getting the door before Mrs. Hudson could be aroused, I led him upstairs with his precious parcel. He walked through the sitting room, straight to the room where I had once billeted, and positioned her on the bed. Throughout the entire trip, the gipsy had not awoken.

I went to the closet and retrieved my old medical bag. Dusting it off, I turned to the bed to begin my examination of her wasted form, as Holmes took the chamber bowl out in search of water and a cleansing cloth.

By the time he’d returned, I surmised that she was malnourished, slightly bruised, and very weak. It was only her weakness, I knew, that allowed me to continue my examination as she began to come to. Too exhausted to fight me off, she seemed too willing to accept her fate, and I began to wish she would at least shower me with outraged invectives at the liberties I was taking. But to see no fire at all in her eyes worried me more than her overall condition. What horrors had this woman seen that she was so willing to give up the ghost?

She drifted in and out of consciousness as Holmes began to wipe away the dirt on her face, neck and hands. There was nothing I could do for her, as only decent food and proper sleep could bring back the bloom in her cheeks. That would take time, and I was running out.

I wished Holmes the best of luck with her, and hastened to leave before Mary could send someone to berate me for the late hour. I had told her I was going to dinner with a colleague, and so I had. But we’d been married long enough for her to know that I would finish with a visit to Holmes. She didn’t normally begrudge me this, but lately she’d begun to worry that his nearly psychotic behavior regarding this gipsy mystery would one day involve me in something dangerous. I had no plans to tell her that tonight her fears might well have come to pass.

As I was leaving, Holmes followed me to the sitting room, where he asked me not to reveal to Mrs. Hudson that he had brought the woman here.

“And how will you get meals for her, then?” I asked.

“You know Mrs. Hudson always prepares more for me than I need,” he answered in his ‘Elementary-my-dear-Watson’ voice. “I’ll simply feed her from that. She probably won’t be able to keep anything heavy for a while anyway.”

“And clothing? And all the little things women need that we men have no clue about?”

“I’ll just have to leave that until she can tell me specifically what she needs.”

I grudgingly left him then, knowing I would not be able to come up with an argument that would change his mind about keeping her there. I refused to consider what caring for her would entail, and trusted that Holmes was up to it. Still, it was difficult not to tell Mary what had happened, if only because a woman would be better suited to attending to the gipsy’s personal care.

I knew that Mary would not have hesitated to help, but as we still didn’t know anything about the gipsy, I didn’t want Mary involved. Propriety be damned, Holmes was up to his neck in it, and that was just as he intended it anyway.

As the days progressed, I noticed changes in Holmes. The woman had come around and at some point, had told him her name. Anna Williams. It sounded so ordinary that I was at once convinced it was contrived. Such an exotic woman must have an equally exotic name. Holmes smilingly told me that most gipsies had three names--the one their families provided them with; another one that was used when forced to deal with the general public; and a third, secret name.

This name was given to the baby by the mother shortly after birth. Only the mother, and later the child, knew this name, and it was the name that held all the magical powers the mother could possibly wish for her child...the name acted as a charm to keep the child safe from harm throughout life.

Clearly, the gipsy told us of the second name. I wondered if there would ever come a time when she would grace Holmes with the knowledge of her first name, the one her family would have given her at birth. But at least we could call her Anna; this she insisted upon, and would have nothing to do with ‘Miss Williams’. Although she referred to me as Dr. Watson, she was already on a first name basis with Holmes, and I noticed it was difficult for Holmes to meet her eyes for any significant length of time. He always dropped his glance quickly, and with an alarming rise of color to his face.

I began to wonder exactly how familiar he’d become with her in their acquaintance thus far. She rapidly began putting back some of the weight she’d lost, and there were those rare occasions when I actually saw a charming smile. Although she seemed content to convalesce in Holmes’ rooms, there were times I could see her gaze longingly out the window. It didn’t take deductive skills like Holmes’ to see she needed to be outdoors in the sunshine again soon.

She tolerated a quick examination from me about five weeks after Holmes had rescued her, and I stated that if she could gain at least five more pounds, I would declare her well enough to leave. She rewarded me with one of her rare but dazzling smiles, and I must confess to feeling a bit flustered.

It seemed Holmes did not share her enthusiasm.

“But where will you go?” he asked quietly.

There was silence in the room as she considered his question. It was obvious she hadn’t thought about what her life would be once she left these rooms. As far as I was concerned, it couldn’t happen too soon. As charmed as I was by her growing friendliness toward me, I was worried about what appeared to be the declining health of Holmes.

It could be that in order to feed her nutritious food, he’d been neglecting his own appetite, and I knew he’d lost far too much sleep in worrying about her. He would never admit it, but I suspected his nights were spent sitting in the chair beside her bed, where he’d be alerted to her every move, every moan or whimper she’d make. Five weeks of such behavior was taking a toll on him.

As Anna approached her normal weight, her appetite decreased, and I worried that she would begin to lose what progress she’d made. Perhaps it was nature which determined that she remain slight, but it might also have been her subconscious urge to remain here, where she was safe.

It was like pulling teeth, but we did manage to glean some information from her about her personal life. She had once been employed by a man whose relative was important in the House of Lords. She had been a live-in governess to his two children, and she believed he and his wife had been as happy with her as she’d been happy to be there.

But it had all changed when Laurence Trevor accused her of theft. Somehow, the man had learned enough about her to trace her to her residence, where he publicly accused her of the theft. Since she had not been inclined to defend herself against his accusations, her employer saw no choice but to let her go. He simply couldn’t afford the scandal with which Trevor had threatened him. It was then she denied having stolen Trevor’s purse, but by then it was too late. She left.

Prejudice against her kind was very strong, and she hadn’t been able to find new employment. She had only her clothes, books, and assorted bits of inexpensive jewelry to pawn, and when the money ran out, so ended her meals and her boarding at the women’s hotel near Picadilly.

“Why didn’t you band together with the rest of the gipsies hereabouts?” I asked.

“They’re not my people,” she answered. “They would no more have accepted me into their ranks than they would you.”

“Where are your people?” Holmes asked, almost as if he dreaded the answer.

“The nearest ones are in Rome. I went against my father’s wishes and came here to live my own life. I will never be allowed back.”

“You had no connection with that band of gipsies who bumped into Trevor at the train station? When he accused you of making off with his purse?”

“No.”

“You never saw the purse in question?”

“This sounds like the beginning of a most unpleasant interrogation,” she answered. “And I’m exhausted. If you don’t mind terribly, I think it’s time I excused myself.” Without waiting for a response from either of us, Anna retired to her room. I turned to Holmes, lowering my voice.

“What difference does any of that make now?” I asked him. “All guilty parties are in dock, and the real property has been in the custody of the Yard all these months.”

“Simply that it’s a loose end,” he answered easily. “It was only theory that the document Trevor was most worried about was something that could prove his involvement in the planned theft. The purse, and therefore the document, had never been recovered. I don’t like unanswered questions. And you noticed, of course, that she avoided answering mine. I’m sure she knows more than she’s let on.”

“I think you offended her by asking.”

“I know I did,” he said, with only the slightest trace of remorse. “Still, it had to be asked. Now perhaps one day she’ll answer.”

“But, Holmes,” I protested, “when the theft took place, she was still employed and enjoying reasonable contentment. Why would she have stolen it? I mean, I could see if it had happened after her fall from grace in her employer’s eyes, but what would she have gained by stealing from someone at the time?”

“Oh, I never believed she stole it, Watson,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “But I strongly suspect she knows what happened to it. It’s only pride that keeps her silent, I’m sure. Either she’s protecting a fellow gipsy, or she simply refuses to cooperate with anyone who speaks to her so horribly.”

I noticed once again the haggardness of his features, and I remembered he’d not eaten much at supper. As he rose, stretching and reaching for his violin, I could see his color was off as well. Restraining myself from fussing, I contented myself with asking how he was feeling.

“Restless, Watson! I think we need to plan a trip out of an evening. What or who is playing at our local theater?”

“Nothing worthwhile until Sunday evening,” I replied. “We can see summer stock mangling Shakespeare’s latest. Will Anna join us?”

“I intend to ask her. I have kept her a prisoner here longer than a gipsy would normally tolerate, I’m afraid.”

“She’ll need something suitable to wear, then.”

“Yes, I suppose she will. Thank Mary again, would you, for the clothes she’s already contributed to the cause.” We had, weeks ago, taken Mary into confidence, and she was a willing partner in our conspiracy to keep Anna’s residency here a secret.

“I will, and she’s looking for an excuse to do some more shopping. Shall I give her the go-ahead?”

“Please do. But remember, when given a choice, Anna dresses conservatively. I know she appreciates the thought, but I can’t help but think she feels a bit ridiculous sporting the colorful tapestry of dresses Mary has already provided.”

“Yes, I’ll just remind her to forget about Anna’s being a gipsy. She’s not exactly typical, is she?”

As I prepared to take my leave for the night, I silently wondered whether Holmes’ would feel up to an evening out. By the time Sunday came around, he could very well have collapsed, if my medical eye meant anything.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The wonder of it all was that I was able to keep Mrs. Hudson from learning of her new border. It was pathetically easy, and I had moments of unease when I was reminded of how I was taking advantage of her trust in me. But these were only short moments; after all, there was no other way to see to it that Anna recovered from her year of street life.

It did my heart and my conscience good to see her bloom under my inadequate care. It was truly a testament of her survival instincts, and I was almost intimidated by her fortitude. I watched as her face filled out, and cheered silently as I slowly lost sight of her protruding collarbone. I gloated as I saw the mistrust and fear slowly leaving her eyes.

There were times in the beginning when she depended on me for her every need, and that need included things that I, as a man, should never have taken on. Certain things, she would refuse to allow assistance with, and it was just as well. But she didn’t have the strength to return to her room after bathing, for instance. With my eyes averted to the best of my ability, I, at those times, helped her out from the bathtub, toweled her off, and pulled a nightdress over her. By the time we’d fumbled our way through it, I would have to catch her before she fell to the floor, and carry her back to her bed.

I know Watson was better equipped, as a medical man, to deal with such a situation without feeling awkward, but I hesitated to ask him for help, as it would have meant his being here later than Mary would have appreciated. Besides, I had always felt his silent censure at my bringing Anna here instead of taking her to hospital. That I found it difficult to meet her eyes afterward was no one’s fault but my own. I know her childhood was not the same Victorian upbringing I knew, but still, there were certain things a gentleman just did not do. And in the quiet, lonely hours of the night, I lacked the self-discipline necessary to prevent my idle mind from returning to those incidents. Even as I had tried to keep my wandering eyes from noticing any more than absolutely necessary to prevent her injuring herself in a fall, my hands remembered how it felt to rub a flannel over her skin to dry it. My nose remembered what her clean hair smelled like, and my ears remembered the sound of her sigh as she finally lost the ability to stand upright.

There is no excuse for the countless minutes I spent brushing her silken hair as she lay sleeping, worn out from such exertion. Even when it was almost completely dry and tangle-free, I couldn’t resist the feeling of the glossy strands curling around my fingers. Under the pretense of brushing away a stray lash from her cheek, I would touch the warm softness of her face. Telling myself I was searching for her pulse, my fingers played on the delicate skin of her neck.

Such behavior is reprehensible, and I couldn’t even take comfort in the fact that she would never know about it. I noticed the amused glint in her eyes later, just before I felt compelled to look away. Did she know what thoughts were going through my mind? Did she sense my nervousness whenever she was close to me? And did she sneer at me in contempt for it, or was she simply laughing at my fallibility?

Still, there had been no mocking smiles as she fainted into my arms when she was drained of what little energy she had. When she cried out in fear as a result of whatever nightmares she dreamt, I could sense no derision in her as I held her comfortingly. And when the time came that her strength made a huge leap, and I knew her need of me would be minimal, I felt the pain of wistful departure. No more could I find an excuse to hold her, to brush her hair, to touch her at all. This knowledge, at times, was so unbearable that I would have welcomed even the sting of her slap on my face in rebuke of my touch on her skin.

I encouraged her to talk to me, to trust me enough to allow me a glimpse into her world, and I soon found out what a sharp mind she had. She’d had many opportunities to study people, and her point-of-view was that of someone detached from the world at large, yet fully aware of those around her. She was well-read in classical literature, and had a comfortable understanding of the most popularly spoken European languages. Her skill with numbers added to the list of qualities that had caused her former employer to hire her to educate his children, in spite of her gipsy ancestry. It was such a pity, the way he worried about scandal; I felt sympathy for his children, who would not now get the best education they might have had.

And she was a musician. That interesting bit of detail came reluctantly. She had asked me what piece it was she’d heard me playing the evening before, after she retired to her room to sleep. It had been my habit to play my violin before turning in myself, and I think I fancied that she wouldn’t be able to hear it. But we became involved in a discussion about the composer, and I learned she had begun playing the violin when still a young child, under the tutelage of her father.

She wistfully spoke of the violin she had pawned almost a year ago, desperate for rent for her room at the hotel and a few days’ meals. She hated that the hunger inevitably returned, and rent was again due the next month, yet she no longer had the solace of her violin. She felt she had sold a part of her soul for something fleeting, and by doing so she’d compromised herself.

I took my violin from the desk where I’d left it, and offered it to her. She looked at me, awe and disbelief in her eyes, while her hand reached out timidly to accept it. Her eyes kept returning to me again and again as she rosined the bow, before finally focusing on the instrument before her. It endeared me even further to her as I watched her expression of true appreciation for my own favorite instrument.

I knew she’d forgotten my presence as she began to draw the bow across the strings. The music she played was poignant; it spoke of tragedy and lost love, of the dashing of hope, and the enigmatic will to go on in spite of it all. It was a gipsy song of life, and no one can study the race without becoming familiar with such music. For underlying the tear-inspiring notes was a base of undying determination, of souls that would not be crushed, and of the infinite tenacity that holds all of it together.

As she took the bow away from the strings, we shared a breathless moment of silence, savoring the emotions the song induced. It was a catharsis of spirit, and when she self-consciously surrendered the violin back to me, I asked her who wrote the song. She had no answer; it was a song taught to her by her father, and was heard frequently around the campfires of her childhood. There were no lyrics to it that she was aware of, and she never heard anyone tell of the story behind it. As she answered, I realized what a ridiculous question it had been. It was a composition that must be felt, not explained, and suddenly I felt I was unworthy to hear it.

I tried to hand her back the violin, but she demurred, proving to me that the melody had drained her. It was the old culture she was missing, and nostalgia is indeed a powerful emotion. I had quite forgotten she was still recovering from what must have been her most harrowing year.

Hoping to take her mind away from whatever thoughts had been evoked by the tune, I questioned her about Trevor’s purse once again.

“I told you I didn’t take it,” she said, a trifle testy now.

“I never supposed you did,” I said, surprising her. “But you know who did.”

“What makes you think so?”

“The artful way you avoid answering the question. Everything else I ask, you’re quite candid in answering. This one particular question makes you uncomfortable.”

She smiled grudgingly. “I forgot who it was asking me these questions. Yes, I saw what happened, but I don’t know what happened after that.”

“Was it someone in that band of gipsies?”

“No. That man himself threw away the purse as he got off the train. After he chased me out of the station, I circled back and retrieved it.”

“He threw it away? Something he so clearly wants?”

“It’s possible he didn’t mean to,” she answered, her brow furrowing in memory. “It was with his newspaper.”

“Why did you take such a chance in returning to the station? I would have worried about a constable waiting there.”

“Oh, I made sure no one was about first. But it bothered me that he would accuse me of something he did himself. It also offended me that he would accuse me, and none of the other gipsies. I felt if I could get a look at what he’d thrown away, at least my curiosity would be satisfied.”

“What was in it?”

“Just a folded piece of paper and some money.” She saw that I was waiting for more information, and fortunately, she decided I was being friendly about it. “It had some numbers on it, and directions about turning something a certain number of times, different directions, then back again...it made no sense to me.”

“What happened to that paper?”

“I eventually got rid of it.”

“You mean you kept it for a while? Why?”

“It had the address of the man on it, or so I thought at the time. I wanted to know where he lived so I would know how to avoid him. But it turned out to be someone else’s address.”

“Do you remember that address?”

“No, only that it was in Bedford. I went to Bedford one day to see what I could see, but it looked like someone else lived there.” She shrugged, showing her indifference.

“Yes, that would have been James Dorian. The man who had been pursuing you was Laurence Trevor--one of Dorian’s acquaintances and his partner in the attempted theft of some valuable property. Dorian is dead now, but Trevor is awaiting trial. He’s no longer free to chase you through the streets.”

She grinned, remembering, as I was, her seeming attempt to end Trevor’s pursuit of her with the help of my cab’s horse. “So why was it so important that he accuse me of taking his purse?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” I admitted. “I don’t know why he would throw it away; that paper you found in it had information he needed. And I don’t understand why he would accuse you, specifically you, of the theft of his purse.”

“Maybe he wanted to convince someone that he was no longer in possession of that information.”

“But then why would he have been so determined to find you?”

“So, I suppose he needed that document. No, that isn’t right,” she said in frustration. “He threw it away himself! Why would he try to frame me for taking it? Unless he was aware that I later found it.”

I had a feeling that until I cleared up this part of the mystery, Anna’s life would be in danger. Who knew what comrades of Trevor’s would still be at large, seeking her out?

“Have you ever noticed anyone besides Trevor watching you? Pursuing you?”

“No, and I have been looking over my shoulder for a long time. I don’t think he took anyone into his confidence.”

I replaced the violin on the shelf, and filling my pipe, I turned my thoughts inward, and didn’t notice when she left the room to seek the world of dreams.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

I frowned at Holmes, wanting him to see that I wasn’t fooled. I saw right through him, and I gloated. It wasn’t often I could make that claim.

“You have no reason to feel responsible for her well-being,” I argued. “True, you rejected her appeal for your help initially, but you’ve more than made up for that by seeing she got back on her feet. The idea of providing employment for her is ludicrous. What do you need an assistant for?”

“You’re an old married man, now, Watson!” he said, impish smile on his usually dour face. “I can’t expect you to be here as often as you had been in the past. I should have Mary’s wrath to deal with!”

“Are you proposing to take her along on your future investigations, then? A woman? That sounds bold even for you.”

“Of course not,” he said, not backing down in the least. “But look at the state of this study! Books all over the place, documents unfinished and un-filed. Manuscripts of monographs to be submitted for publication...even my make-shift lab needs looking after. And she seems very well organized...just what I need in an assistant.”

“And where will she live, then? How long can you keep her residency here from the all-seeing Mrs. Hudson?”

“Don’t be naive, my dear Watson,” he said, shooting me a sideways glance. “Mrs. Hudson knows perfectly well she’s here. She’s been supplying more than the usual amount of food for quite some time now.”

“Preposterous! She’d never let you get away with it.”

“She trusts my proper Victorian upbringing to keep me from ruining the poor woman,” he said, tongue in cheek. “The very idea that someone she holds in such high esteem would do something a proper gentleman shouldn’t is abhorrent to her, and thus creates a blind spot.”

“She needs to take a closer look at you, then,” I mumbled under my breath. I was not blind to the way Holmes reacted to Anna’s presence. He turned into a stuttering fool some of the time, and the rest of the time, I could detect the slightest bit of boasting in his voice as he regaled her with stories of some of the cases he’d worked on. Such bragging was as foreign to his normal nature as analytical genius was to mine, and it could all be blamed on this gipsy woman’s re-entry into his life.

“Now, surely you’d not begrudge me someone who could get all these things in order?”

“Of course not, I think it’s a smashing idea. What I object to are the living arrangements. Unless...”

“Unless what, Watson?”

“Unless you have it in mind to propose marriage to the lass.”

He stopped his pacing, staring hard at me. “You must be having me on,” he said disbelievingly. “She wouldn’t think twice about me, and I have not lost my wariness of the fairer sex.” He snorted through his long nose. “The very idea...” He resumed his pacing, but I could see that his steps were quicker, more abrupt. I had hit a nerve, and the stoic, dour Mr. Sherlock Holmes failed to hide from me his agitation, or even his chaotic thoughts, now brought to mind by my question.

“On second thought,” I mused aloud, “it would do you good to admit to having human feelings. It brings you down to level of humanity you’d probably never seen before, except in your studies.”

“Rather rude of you to enjoy yourself so much at my expense, old boy,” he said affably enough. “I’m only relieved she’s not here to be subjected to it.”

“Where did she go, by the way?”

“Your Mary took her out shopping. Remember our date for the play?”

I hadn’t forgotten. I had been looking forward to it. I wondered if there would be tension in the air, now that I had Holmes thinking about marriage. I hadn’t really intended to plant the idea, but I could see that it had taken root, and knowing Holmes as I do, I knew it would worry him to no end. Surely Anna would sense his mood and question him about it. It might be worth my time to observe how he would deal with it.

“So, have you asked her if she wanted the position?” I asked, hoping to take his mind off his latest worry.

“Not yet. Perhaps after the play. Maybe after she gets a chance to be outdoors again, in public, she’ll be motivated to stay there. It goes without saying that she’d not look forward to living on the streets again. And I don’t know where else she’d find employment, unless we can be sure Trevor completely exonerates her during the trial. In that case, perhaps her former position would be again offered to her.

“That reminds me,” he added, tapping his pipe stem against his teeth. “I should speak to her former employer. Perhaps he could shed some light on why Anna was being targeted by Trevor. She was living in the house there; he must have noticed if something was amiss.”

Now, this was the Holmes I had been afraid I wouldn’t see again. My old friend could find a mystery in the simplest lost umbrella, and I knew he’d chase down Anna’s former employer and get to the bottom of things.

But a new worry began to nag at me as I watched him come to rest in the armchair before the fireplace. In spite of his good spirits, I was aware that he wasn’t feeling as well as he would claim. There was a pallor to his complexion, and his eyes were a trifle less bright than was usual for him.

I had thought a few weeks ago that he couldn’t afford to give his meals to Anna, as his appetite, finicky at best, was declining. And since then I watched, worrying, as Anna’s increase in good health was inversely proportional to Holmes’ decline.

I had kept my concerns to myself, knowing that if Holmes thought I was ‘fussing’ over him, he’d be more likely to hide these symptoms, and I would be none the wiser if things would become worse. I tried to satisfy myself with the occasional sideways glance to make sure he was still fit.

 

Our dinner out was a lovely affair, with Mary chattering like a magpie, Anna blooming with much improved health, and myself content to sit quietly and digest my meal. Holmes was almost completely silent, but I could see by his features that there was no place he’d rather be this evening.

As the evening progressed, I began to have second thoughts about this. It soon became apparent to me that his bonhomie was contrived, and he never once drew his pipe from his pocket. I wished I had paid more attention to what food he might have taken at dinner. The spark was definitely gone from his eyes, and I don’t believe his attention was focused on the stage play before us.

It was an engaging cast, and due to circumstances beyond the control of the theater and the performers, there were many adjustments made to Shakespeare’s original effort so that lack of appropriate scenery and orchestra provided fodder for which one or two hammish actors could ad lib their way to extra mentions in the critics’ reviews on the morrow.

I had turned to ask Holmes his opinion on this troupe converting a tragedy into something of a comedy, but he wasn’t in his seat. Craning my head, I could see the back end of Anna as she exited through the door to the lobby. I moved to rise, but Mary’s hand on my arm stayed me. “Only a short time more, John,” she whispered. “We’ll meet up with them in the lobby.”

But we didn’t. Finally giving up our search, I could only assume the two had made an escape of it, and would meet us in Holmes’ flat, where we had planned to partake of an evening dessert while discussing and dissecting the performance.

As we left the theater to hail a cab, we found Anna half-supporting Holmes, who was looking ghastly and leaning heavily against the building. Even in the dim light of the gas lamps of the street, his face showed none of the coloring that separates a corpse from a living being.

We helped him into the cab, and in spite of his weak waving off of my attention, I could determine that his skin was cold and clammy, and his respiration was labored. “Is it something from dinner, John?” Mary asked, her features screwed up in worry.

“No, I daresay this has been coming on for a while,” I answered. “I fear he’s suffering from a brain fever, and this evening air has brought about its rapid progress. We must get him to bed at once.”

Mary fetched my black bag from the shelf in the sitting room as Anna and I half-carried Holmes into his room, depositing him onto his bed. As I looked on, stunned by her forwardness, Anna began removing his clothes with all the efficiency of a mother preparing her babe for bed. Mary, having brought in my bag, glanced at Anna as she began to unbutton Holmes’ shirt, and simply shrugged at me.

I came to my senses in time to chase her from the room before she could finish her work on his trousers, and saw genuine surprise in her eyes as Mary escorted her from the room. Granted, when one is ailing, modesty must be a romantic notion, but in light of the future employer/employee relationship, and the fact that Anna was still a border here, I felt it was best if she not become that well-acquainted with Holmes. As avant-guard as gipsies appeared to be, I knew Holmes would not be able to face her upon recovering, if he knew of her familiarity.

Once I finished undressing him, I covered him with the quilt. I went to the wardrobe in search of another blanket or two, and when I returned to the bed, I saw that he had kicked away the quilt. His fever was already high enough to cause him discomfort, but I piled the blankets on him anyway.

I’m aware most people would have immediately placed him in a cold-water bath, but I believed we should force his temperature higher, until such point as we could force it to break. Only then would he begin to recover.

He was already weak; when I tucked the blankets tightly around him, he was effectively pinned down, the effort required to throw off the cocoon too great for him to deal with tonight. I opened the door at Anna’s knocking, and took from her the urn in which she’d brought cool water. Pouring it into the old chamber pot I found in the wardrobe, I began to bathe his face, gratified at his visible calming. As long as I could keep his face cool, I knew he’d allow the rest of his body to roast.

Eventually we left, Anna having assured us she would spend the night watching over him and keeping his brow cool. I made plans to come first thing in the morning to see how he was faring.

 

There was no doubt in my mind that Holmes’ illness would pass quickly. As far as the frail human condition goes, he was more fit than most, and his strong will alone would ensure he would be up and around before we knew it. So it was with a light step that I climbed the stairs to his rooms the next morning.

I let myself in the door, standing quietly to hear what was happening in the flat. Hearing the faint sound of Holmes’ voice, I went to his bedroom door, worried that during the night he may have taken a turn for the worse. As I approached, I heard unmistakably the agonized groan of a dying man. Where was Anna? Why hadn’t she sent for me?

It wasn’t easy for me to see my greatest friend in turmoil, to see my hero in a weakened state, and I paused at the closed door, having to mentally fortify myself before opening it. Then I stood there, uncomprehending, for long seconds as I took in the sight before me.

Anna was sitting on the edge of his bed, blocking most of him from my view. Still, I could see by his bared legs and upper chest that she’d allowed him to kick away the heavy wraps of quilting. The rest of him was hidden from my view, but I could see, by the movements of her arms, that her hands were busy. As I stood there, unmoving, barely breathing, I slowly realized what was happening.

It was now clear to me that his groaning was not from the throes of pain or impending death, but something much to the contrary. His breath panted out in gusts in between moans, and his hands flitted about, not sure of their proper place, alternating between gripping the bed firmly and reaching up toward his pillows. When his eyes would open, I could see, even from the distance of the doorway, that they were glazed over, and not necessarily in sickness.

“Ohhh...yes...ahhhh...”

Under the sounds of his gasping, I backed away, soundlessly pulling the door shut. Carefully making my way back across the width of the room to make my escape, I decided I would wait a reasonable period of time, then make my noisy and public way back inside, where I would try to keep this new and unwanted knowledge from my features.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

How can I face her now?

My fever had broken during the night, and I dimly remember being helped to the bathtub, soft hands with a sure grip supporting me as I lowered my frame into cooling water. I remember drifting in and out of a daze as a soothing touch bathed me, the gentle caresses a welcome balm to my tired and overheated body. I had moments of lucidity when I couldn’t convince myself it had been a disturbing dream. Then, mercifully, my mind again drifted off into unreality, and I could forget.

But now I was throwing off my illness, and I could not keep up much longer the charade that protected me from facing up to what I’d done. Even now, as I think about it, my body hardens in memory, and I feel as though my fever is returning for an encore. What must she think of me?

I have, perhaps, one more night of freedom. One more night of hiding from my reprehensible behavior, of not having to look into her eyes and see the disgust and, God forgive me, the fear that must certainly be there.

I was exhausted. The fever had burned up more energy than I had to spare. However, weak though I would be for days to come, I knew I had to be up and about on the morrow, for there was no honor in faking a lasting illness in order to shield myself from my own actions. It wouldn’t get any less difficult to deal with in the time to come.

But on this night, I could remember. Without yet having to account for it, I could take perverse pleasure in the memory and, in doing so, perhaps exorcise it from my mind and body forever.

I allowed myself to relax, and took my mind back to...to the day it happened. I was in almost constant delirium, and so I don’t know if it was yesterday, or the day before that. It could have been weeks ago. I had lost track of time, and could remember nothing clearly since that evening of the play.

I remember feeling relief from the intense furnace that had surrounded me. I don’t remember how I came to be in my bed once more, but I was aware of the cool crispness of clean bed linens. Her caress on my face was a welcome comfort and she brought with it a cool breeze that saved my sanity. I heard the sound of water being wrung from a cloth, and it was then I began to understand that I was in a fever, and she was bathing me with water and alcohol in order to reduce it.

I sighed as she carved a path with her cloth down my neck to my chest. She lingered there, and I began to breathe more easily. I felt I finally knew what Heaven awaited me upon my death, for I was getting a hint of it here on earth.

My fever made it difficult to remain aware of anything for long; as Anna worked to cool me, I faded in and out, and my thoughts began to drift along for the ride. Perhaps if I were a less honorable man, I would somehow use that as an excuse for what followed, but I know myself too well. I would have to make a formal apology of it, and let the chips fall where they may.

Ill as I was, I became aware of my strong physical response as her cloth moved lower, and it was then that I realized my nakedness. The blanket which someone kept covering me with was pulled aside, and I was lying there as I was brought into this world, bared before her eyes.

Had I the strength of a well man, I would have grabbed the quilt and hidden under it. As it was...

My body betrayed me. Instead of shrinking in embarrassment, I actually began to feel a stirring that I had long ago convinced myself only less disciplined men felt. It must have been my fever that put the deviant thought into my mind that I wanted her to see, to look her fill.

Her cool cloth moved over my hip, crossed over the lower part of my stomach to the other hip, where her movements seemed to slow. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting her to see my lucidity. When I realized the folly of that, due to my labored breathing and the tell-tale twitching of my usually hidden anatomy, I allowed the haze to take control once again, seconding my consciousness to a lower status. When fully cognizant, I pride myself in my self-discipline, in my ability to do what needed to be done without emotion entering into the decision. With the brain fever upon me, I felt as though I were watching a play for the second time; I knew what I was going to do, but was powerless to stop.

As she lingered over the most fevered part of me, even to rubbing the cloth over the insides of my legs, I became more and more aroused, and I couldn’t stop a groan from escaping my lips. Pure frustration must have been what caused me to take her hand and place it on the organ that only the devil could have designed. My glazed eyes met hers, and I watched her reaction as I wrapped my fingers around hers to guide her. She’d had the cloth in her hand, and its rough texture on my sensitive shaft reminded me of why she was here while I was ill.

Belatedly, I pulled my hand away in horror, already searching for the words to beg her forgiveness. But she tossed away the cloth, and I felt her hands again reach for me, stroking me and running her palm across the over-sensitive tip.

I felt and heard my breath leaving my lungs in a surprised gasp. Never had I imagined what it would feel like to have hands upon me that weren’t my own. Even my own hands would have created sensations somewhat foreign to me, as I half-believed, like all the other men of my generation, that to abuse myself would have meant giving my soul to the eternal fires of Hell upon my eventual death. That I had sometimes, although rarely, partook of that perversion was my darkest secret.

Oh, those clever hands...that uncanny ability she had to listen for my slightest moan, the faintest catch in my voice. She was using my raspy breathing and barely audible murmurings to instruct her in when to grip more tightly, when to stroke more quickly. She was a woman full of curiosity, and as I gripped the linens under my hands, as my legs stiffened with tension, she explored the tender and ticklish flesh of my thighs. She lifted the heavy sac that lay between them, and I stiffened as if prodded with a branding iron. The gasp I prevented by clamping my lips shut tight, instead became a drawn-out moan, as she used slight pressure upon me, exploring the shape of every part of me.

The stiff pain in my white-knuckled hands made me aware of the grip I had on the sheet, and I forced myself to let go. I brought my unsteady hands up, unsure of what I planned to do with them, and reached up to grip my pillow instead. The sweet pressure from her hands went from the base, where my hips rose to meet her, all the way, slowly, to tease the tip, right after she twisted her touch slightly, eliciting another hitch in my breath.

Was it my fever or her erotic rhythm that caused me to become entirely unaware of the world around us, focusing my senses on the intense coil of rising euphoria within me? I could feel the approach of something powerful, something overwhelming. It brought to my mind a tidal wave forming out in the sea, the rush toward the shore turning my gasps and groans into a steady moaning as my body began to thrash under her touch; a confused reaction to the steadily increasing pace of her glorious pumping.

Even in my fever, I could hear that my voice reflected my escalated passion. I surrendered that part of my consciousness which spoke of details that weren’t a part of the all-consuming physical revolution taking place within my very core. Instead, I concentrated on those magical hands that worked at me, one pushing my ball sac up against my heated shaft, while the other stroked me beyond what any man could bear with rational thought. I could feel it building, driving me toward an explosive release, my goddess never faltering in her attentions.

I knew what was about to occur--I had no way of knowing if she knew. It was a moot point; I could no more stop what was happening than I could clear the fever from my brain and come to my senses, no more than I could move back the hands of time and chase her from my room before the first touch of her cool cloth on my fevered brow.

I barely heard my words of encouragement, so great was my need. My body was no longer in my control, if ever it was. My hips jerked with her every move, my legs aligned with my back in a tightly wired line. I was almost hyperventilating, and as she busied her hands with me, I called out a warning to her, but I don’t think she understood; my words were garbled, my throat thick with lust.

I was being carried along an unseeing, out-of-control euphoria, and in my delirium, I saw a shapeless target in my mind’s eye. It was toward this unknown goal I rushed.

Suddenly, I felt her move to rub her hand over the wet head of my thrusting cock, and it was then that I cried out in release, my harsh shout scraping past my aching throat. Again and again, I sounded out my rapture, knocked so far beyond sensibility that I barely registered the alternating waves of heat and ice coursing through my body.

I could feel my heart hammering in my chest as I struggled to regain my breath. My entire being was throbbing, striving for normalcy after such a shock to my system. Involuntarily groaning as she tenderly moved the retrieved cloth over me, I fought off unconsciousness, wanting to savor this feeling of bliss that made me feel like the most important thing in her life.

As I lie here, remembering all this, I shamefully find myself stroking, my own hands following the path she’d taken the day before. My face hot with a fever that has nothing to do with my illness, I yank my hand away, turning to my side and huddling down deeper into the quilt. Taking a deep breath, I try to force my mind to the meeting I must have with Anna tomorrow. That should be enough to remove these unwanted and inexcusable physical feelings from my suddenly hedonistic and tortured soul.

My exhaustion is great, and I can feel myself drifting off, although my body is still aroused. Knowing I am in for a night full of lustful dreams of remembered passion, I am powerless to do anything about it, except be grateful that Anna had determined that I no longer needed anyone watching over me as I slept.

My last conscious thought is disgust at myself...I pull the quilt away from my legs, having realized that I was shifting against it rhythmically...


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

I’m quite sure I could forget what I should never have seen, if not for the tension in the air. It was almost a tangible thing, and it was exasperating to watch Holmes go through all sorts of strange postures and minor acrobatics so he would not be forced to meet the questioning look in Anna’s eyes.

She had accepted the position Holmes had offered her, and I sat quietly, pretending to read a medical journal, while she puttered around the sitting room, stacking papers and books in separate piles in order to put them into some semblance of order. As she worked, she kept sneaking peeks across the room to where Holmes sat at the window, pondering. What he was thinking about, I could only guess at. He could have been honing his skills by predicting what the passersby below did for a living, or he could have been trying to solve the problems of the world at large.

Alternatively, he could have been wondering why he chose to wear black shoes this morning as opposed to brown.

I could sense that approaching the delicate subject of Anna’s place in his life would earn me his nastiest sneer and most condescending remark. I did not wish to have my head bitten off, nor did I want to force him to come to terms with what had happened between them. However, I could not stop worrying about it, and in the dearth of information directly from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, I was forced to assume certain things.

It was my considered opinion that she had taken advantage of his weakness somehow; if it were any other way, I rather doubt he’d feel quite as ill-at-ease in her presence now. She, on the other hand, didn’t appear to feel either guilty or smug. She had expected a certain response from him, and had apparently not received it. The confusion I saw in her eyes was not contrived, and I began to wish I knew more about gipsies so I could understand what she must have been thinking at the time.

Perhaps such things were thought of much more casually in her culture than in our own Victorian world.

I had doubts that there was anything I could do for either of them; I had also refrained from mentioning anything about it to Mary. No doubt, she would have been able to cut right through the problem and find the simple solution, but by allowing Holmes to learn that someone other than himself and Anna were aware of what happened would be to say goodbye to his friendship forever.

And so, I brooded along with both of them, saying nothing—for a while.

As the days progressed, I began to alter my original opinion regarding the employment of Anna. She really was earning her wages; the study began to seem more spacious as the bookshelves were being filled once again. Correspondence from various publications proved that Holmes’ monologues were being submitted for approval. When he searched for a specific periodical or case study, he knew just where to look.

She took to running errands for him, leaving him free to tax only his brain, and as he was still looking a tad frail from his recent illness, I was glad to see him taking it easy. Not that he had a choice in the matter; he was still weak from his fever, although he was taking great pains to try and hide that fact from us.

But I was concerned that he would not quickly get over his illness, because his mind never seemed to rest. On the contrary, I could see that his troubled thoughts were getting the better of him, and I began to believe my past worries about his regressing to the needle would have been the least of my worries for his mental well-being. I began to silently curse the day she’d come to his rooms, seeking his help. If she had any decency at all, she would remove herself from his life now, before his brain finally snapped and this greatest of analytical criminal minds would no longer be of any use to those of us who had any respect for law and order.

I had faith in his strict Victorian upbringing; although he showed poor judgment in bringing her into his home without the benefit of a proper chaperone, I could excuse it, knowing as I did how her welfare had plagued him for so long. But now she was on her feet, and perfectly capable of going out into the world to seek more fitting employment.

One day, while she was away from the flat on an errand with his publisher, I joined Holmes for dinner. I carefully brought up the subject of what I called Anna’s temporary employment with him, and asked him when she would be moving on. It caused me no end of concern and anxiety as I listened to him answer everything but what I had asked him. Such vague waffling was foreign to his nature, and I had a sudden premonition that this mysterious and exotic young woman was going to alter a personality that I would once have sworn was carved from granite. I became more and more determined to do everything in my power to remove her from his life. He would, in time, thank me for my presumptuousness, just as soon as he could reclaim his reason.

I began to pay close attention for any opportunity to engage her in conversation outside of his presence. Every night that I failed to do so was another night full of temptation for them both, which I felt that since I was something of an outsider, I could do nothing about.

A situation finally arose in which, if I handled things properly, I could plant the idea in Anna’s mind that it was time for her to move on. She was preparing to go out to speak to a client on Holmes’ behalf, gathering information he’d discussed with her earlier in the day. I made excuses to Holmes about Mary’s wanting me home early, and offered to escort Anna as far as the Square, where she would hire a cab to transport her to Chelsea.

As we walked, I commented about our fair weather; unusual enough for this time of year to guarantee at least a few cheerful words about it. I was aware of my discomfort in conversing with Anna; she was a woman of few words, and weather was clearly not a subject in which she had a great interest. Nothing for it then but to simply plunge in, and try to get my message across to her before reaching the Square.

“Anna, I wonder if you’d yet found any suitable avenues to pursue in your search for employment?”

“Dr. Watson,” she said indulgently, “I have employment. Mr. Holmes does pay my wages for the work I’ve been doing for him.”

“I was under the impression this position was only to provide you with the start of an income so you may be free then to choose something more suitable.”

She frowned in puzzlement, looking at me. “More suitable than what I’m doing? What sort of employment do you see me pursuing then?”

“I thought you might contact your former employer and see if he wouldn’t be willing to hire you once more, now that it’s known the accusations that had been made against you were false.”

“I don’t believe I’d want to work for someone who would so quickly believe the worst of me,” she said. “And how can you be so sure the accusations were indeed false?”

I must admit, this had never occurred to me. Could Holmes have been wrong about her? I looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Are you telling me you had stolen that man’s property?”

“I would never tell you such a thing,” she said, smiling coyly. “I only asked how you could be so certain about it.”

I searched my memory for anything Holmes had said about the incident, and could not swear he’d ever openly proclaimed her innocence. “What reason could you have for lying to Holmes? You must know he would never be able to help you if he hadn’t the whole story.”

“He’s helped me more than I had any reason or right to expect,” she answered. “As far as he’s concerned, my troubles are over. Unless you feel Mr. Trevor might escape justice and continue searching for me.”

“He’s searching for his stolen purse,” I reminded her.

“If I were to hand him his stolen purse on a silver platter, do you suppose he’d toddle off and leave me alone? No retaliation, no worries that I’d figured out what was so important about that document he wants?”

“Why would he? You could be no threat to him, could you?”

“It’s not for me to say what would threaten him, Dr. Watson. I don’t pretend to know him or his problems that well.”

We were nearing the Square, and I was afraid I would waste this opportunity to chase her from our lives. I threw courtesy to the wind and decided direct questions demanded direct answers, in spite of the fact it was a gipsy I was asking.

“Do you have that purse?”

“No, Dr. Watson, I do not.”

“Do you know where that purse is right now?” I mentally puffed up my posture, knowing the question was clever, removing any loopholes her gipsy’s mind might find to rationalize her less than truthful answers.

“Yes, I do.”

It surprised me, having her admit that. What was her game? “Why have you not turned it over to Holmes, then?”

“He never asked for it.”

“Well, my dear girl! He has no idea you have it!”

“I don’t have it, Dr. Watson. I already told you that.”

“Is it your intention to play on his sympathies for your freedom, then? After all he’s done for you already, you plan to throw his trust in you back in his face?”

“He’s in no danger from me,” she said patiently. “Mr. Trevor must never get that document. And if Sherlock has no idea what became of it, all the better for him.”

“What is the story of that document, by the way?”

“Here’s my transport, Dr. Watson. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you. We simply must do it again some time.”

“Now just a minute,” I protested, waving away the cab. “What about your leaving? What do you propose to do about getting on with your life?”

She waved to attract the attention of another driver across the way, and as the cab pulled up before us, I automatically opened the door and held her hand to help her board it. She paused, one foot still on the ground, one on the step, and turned to me. The intense look on her pretty face forced me to listen carefully to her words.

“I think it’s too late for me to think of leaving,” she said. And with those unhelpful and mystifying words, she slammed the door shut behind her and settled into the seat, not meeting my eyes.

I watched the cab make its way down the street, wondering what had happened of which I had not been aware. Too late? That could mean anything...


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

If ever there had come a time to escape her invisible chains, it has passed. I can no longer pretend I will ever regain the time when I wasn’t her prisoner. My thoughts are too muddled to know how I feel about this, and my only salvation is to concentrate instead on the work before me.

The charges against Laurence Trevor had been dismissed. There was simply not enough evidence against him. He was free to pursue his search for Anna and the all-important document that had brought her into my life. As Anna cleared away our dinner plates for Mrs. Hudson to retrieve, I decided I would have to broach the subject.

“Anna, are you aware Trevor is once again at large?”

“I heard you mention it to Dr. Watson this morning.”

“He probably still thinks you’re my client. He’ll show up here sooner or later.”

“I know. I thought I’d hide away if that happens.”

She was not the most loquacious woman in the world. It amused and charmed me, but I really did need some answers. And I was happy to finally have something to think about that involved her, yet took me away from those tormenting and lascivious thoughts I normally had about her.

“Anna.” I paused, waiting for her to stop moving about and give me her full attention. Once I had it, I wasn’t sure how to phrase my words. She had an irritating habit of retreating when I began asking questions.

I tried again. “Anna, whatever happened to that document from Trevor’s purse?”

“I hid it away. I doubt it’s still there.”

“Where, Anna?”

She sighed, but I knew she’d answer. “Do you remember where I was stopping? Near the bridge?”

“I do.”

“There’s a crevice in the foundation where I placed the paper. The purse itself I threw away long before.”

“And the money?”

“It bought a few apples and some milk for a while,” she answered without shame or self-consciousness. The idea of her keeping stolen money didn’t faze me as it once would have. I had seen for myself that it hadn’t been enough, and Trevor would surely seem to owe her much more, if only because it was his fault she’d been going without meals in the first place.

“You don’t think the document is still there? Why not?”

“Because it was months ago. Even if no one has found it, surely the weather or the rats would have destroyed it by now.” I suppressed a shudder as I contemplated how she’d had to live back then, sharing her sleeping quarters with rats, and exposed to the weather and the whims of her disreputable neighbors.

“I think we need to find it,” I decided. “Can you take me there? Show me exactly where you’d left it? We have nothing to lose, and I would really like to see it for myself.”

She came to stand next to me, looking down into my face. “Are you sure you feel up to it?” she asked. “You know a cab can only take you so far. The rest will have to be on foot.”

“I’m not nearly as frail as you and Watson would believe,” I said, smiling. “Shall we go now?”

“It’s a little more of a risk after dark,” she reminded me, a line of worry etching down her forehead. “The folks who call it home are very territorial.”

“They won’t recognize you as one of their own, then?”

She narrowed her eyes, and suddenly I felt a growing tension in the air. Putting her weight on one leg, she put her hands on her hips and lifted one shoulder. I felt immediately the inherent danger in her, as a male tiger might feel when approaching the female of his species.

“Would you mistake me for one of them?”

I swallowed around the sudden dryness of my throat as she brought my attention to her now healthy body. True, she’d come a long way from the nearly emaciated and fragile slip of a girl I had found under that bridge only a few short months ago.

She took her skirts in both hands and came to sit astride my lap, her movement so sudden and unexpected that I had no time to stop her. My hands automatically came to rest on her hips, my eyes opening wide in surprise. I didn’t know what garments were normally worn under a lady’s dress, but it couldn’t have been much. There could be no doubt she felt my body’s instant reaction. She confirmed this when she rocked her hips, forcing a more intimate contact between us. As she brought her soft lips to my neck, effectively chasing away the last of my sanity, I moaned out loud and pulled her closer against me.

I could feel her lips forming a smile against my fevered skin, and she sat up, touching my face with her delicate fingers, tracing my cheekbones and nose, my thin lips. Remembering what those fingers and hands felt like on other parts of me, I shut my eyes, overcome with the intensity of my fulminating lust.

Worried she would see that as a sign of surrender, I quickly stood, carrying her with me and depositing her on the table. I turned away, adjusting myself in my trousers, fighting to breathe normally and striving to remove all expression from my face.

“Anna...”

“Don’t say anything, Sherlock,” came the quiet words. “I should never have done that. I realize it puts you in an awful position. It goes against everything you’ve ever believed about proper behavior.”

I turned back to face her, although I couldn’t bear to see the pain of my rejection on her features. She stepped down to the floor, smoothing her skirts back in place and then looked up at me. Just quietly standing there before me, waiting for what I would say. What _could_ I say? It was obvious to both of us how much I wanted her. Did she expect me to lie about that?

“You do have a way of making me wish I had been brought up in a different time...in a different way...” My words failed to express what I felt. We had never spoken of what had happened between us while I was in fever. “I feel as though I’ve compromised you,” I said, my voice betraying my nervousness. How the devil did one carry on such a conversation? It was something no one would choose to speak of. “I mean, back when I was ill...”

She smiled at me, taking some of the discomfort away from me. “Sherlock, it is I who have compromised you. You weren’t really of sound mind at the time, and I took advantage of you.”

“I was aware enough to know what I did was wrong,” I said, not willing for her to let me off the proverbial hook. “I could have stopped.”

“I wouldn’t have let you,” she said without guilt. “I did nothing I didn’t want to do.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. The memory of that incident, added to this new one, caused heat to come to my face, and I finally looked away, running my hands through my hair and searching for words.

“This is precisely why it was wrong to bring you here,” I said. “Watson saw it coming, I think. He tried to talk me into taking you to hospital instead.”

“Where I would have escaped at the first opportunity, and being ill, would have wound up right back under the bridge where you found me, probably only to die. Never apologize for bringing me here,” she added. “Not on my behalf. You saved my life.”

“Is that why...?”

“No, Sherlock,” she said resolutely. “It could have been Dr. Watson’s flat where I recovered, and I would never have done that to him. Nor would I have assaulted him as I had you, just now.”

“Well...hardly an assault.”

She moved toward me, a smile both in her eyes and on her tempting lips. Reaching up, she touched her hand to the pulse in my neck, letting me know she was aware of the fact that I was still aroused.

“I think I’m glad you don’t feel assaulted,” she said coyly. “But if you really want to find that document, we’d best get to it before it gets any later.”

Relieved, I grabbed a light coat and waited for her to join me. It had briefly crossed my mind that her actions of a moment ago were simply a ploy to make me forget about the document, but since she was the one to remind me of it, I had no reason to believe she was being duplicitous. Could she actually be attracted to me?

As we headed down to the street, I refused to entertain the idea that she had thought to pay off an obligation for a debt I didn’t feel she owed. It would be more than my ego could take.

We hailed a cab from the Square, and as we approached Waterloo Bridge, I covertly gazed at her in the occasional light that came into the cab. She was looking out the window in an alert manner, and I was once again reminded that she’d spent almost a year living on these streets, fighting to survive. She would know the people to avoid, she would know how to defend herself. I felt suddenly inadequate in her company.

We saw no one stirring as we left the cab and continued to the alley under the bridge on foot. She looked at the wall of the abutment, her head cocked, no doubt trying to remember exactly which crevice acted as her vault. As she let out a happy sound, heading for one of them, I became aware of footsteps off to my right. Turning quickly, I saw the light of the nearby gas lamp reflecting off the blade of the knife my new acquaintance held in his hand.

I circled around him, stepping between him and Anna, but he didn’t like that move. He continued pacing, forcing me to circle back until his back was to Anna. I wasn’t entirely sure he’d seen her.

“Just empty your pockets, mate,” he said in a gravelly voice.

“I’m not threatening you, old boy,” I tried. “Just hook it now and leave me be.”

“Not until you hand over--”

His words were cut off as he fell to the ground, revealing the silent Anna behind him. She held a brutal-looking rock in her hands, and her chest was heaving. She looked up at me. “Run!”

And leave her here? She must be daft! I grabbed her arm, pulling her along as I retraced our steps back to the road and up to the street level. Hearing the rock she’d held dropping to the ground behind us, I knew the man, if he survived this, would probably never be the same again. As we climbed up higher, I felt Anna tug my hand, pulling me aside as she turned back. I craned my neck to see what she was up to, just in time to see the several shadowy forms approaching at a terrifying pace.

Grabbing Anna’s hand again, I forcibly pulled her up with me and we ran for our lives to the street above, where there would be, hopefully, at least a few civilized people about. We didn’t stop until reaching the far corner, where our cab had dropped us off, seemingly a year ago. I turned back to see, with relief, that our entourage had elected to stay behind, and I saw that Anna was leaning against a wrought-iron railing before the building, gasping to catch her breath. I leaned over, my hands resting on my knees, and did the same. She’d been right—I hadn’t been up to this.

Alarmed at the sounds coming from Anna, I took her shoulders and turned her around to face me. What I had thought was hysteria was actually laughter. Totally nonplussed, I let my eyes question her.

“Well, that got the blood pumping!” she said, laughing harder at what must have been the shock on my face.

“Anna, we could have been killed!”

“Oh, Sherlock, that was just a bit of a lark! If they were serious, we wouldn’t have gotten away so easily.”

“Oh, really? Friends of yours?” I allowed the bitterness filter through my voice, upset that anyone would find behavior such as that pardonable.

It took a few moments to realize that, other than the sounds of the river under us, and the distant footsteps and murmured conversations of others, all was silent. I glanced back at Anna, remorseful for my words as I saw the seriousness of her features. I’d hurt her with reference to her recent lifestyle, and I wondered if I could ever take back the words.

“Sherlock,” she said quietly, “you don’t really think I lived that way by choice, do you?”

“Not at all, Anna,” I told her. “Please forgive those words; I didn’t mean them.”

She nodded briefly, but said no more. I could find the most poetic and beseeching words in the English language to assure her I didn’t think poorly of her, but I knew it would do nothing for the hurt I’d caused. Apologies would never impress this woman, I knew. She saw more in the thoughtless, impulsive words of others than she heard in what they said afterward. Our ride home was quiet and introspective.

Once upstairs in the sitting room again, I sat down heavily on the sofa, brooding over our failed attempt to rescue the devil’s document. We’d never be able to go back there. We would be watched for. I lighted my pipe, glancing over at Anna to gauge her mood. She’d smiled at me as we’d climbed the stairs, but it had seemed a strain. Clearly, she was still hurting over my careless and cruel remark.

Now she came to sit next to me, and my pulse began racing unaccountably. Well, perhaps not so unaccountably.

She sat staring at me intently for a few seconds, making me wonder if she was trying to read my thoughts. The silence became uncomfortable, and I felt compelled to break it.

“I only wish we could have found the document, for all that trouble,” I said weakly.

She quirked one lovely eyebrow and smiled, the warmth reaching her eyes at last. I began to relax, but then my eyes were pulled to her hand as she slowly moved it to her neck. I was mesmerized, unable to take my eyes from that hand as she traced a path down her chest to where her bodice ended over her breasts in a lacy border. Her long and enticing fingers reached under that border, and she pulled a folded piece of paper from within. I could feel my eyes widen, and I looked up into hers. The sparkle in her eyes was teasing, and she unfolded the paper so I could see.

“Here is the troublesome document, Sherlock.”


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

I let myself into the sitting room to see both Anna’s and Holmes’ heads close together and bent over the desk. They were examining a document before them, and Holmes barely glanced up as I approached them. Anna smiled warmly and reminded me there were still a few scones left over from afternoon tea. Apparently, she didn’t hold it against me that I had been trying to chase her away.

“And what have you there, Holmes?”

“It’s the document that has Trevor in an uproar, Watson,” he answered gaily. “Anna has managed to keep it safe and sound, and now we see for ourselves what all the fuss is about. It indeed seems to hold the directions to open the vault in the old club, but what’s more, there is an allusion to upcoming criminal events.” He held the document out for me to take from him, but upon looking it over, I must confess I couldn’t see much in it.

“What upcoming criminal events?” I asked, resenting that he wanted to make a drama of it.

“If you’ll read the bottom paragraph, Watson, you’ll see that the author refers to a shipment of antiques and jewelry scheduled to come into Liverpool in two months’ time.”

“And what’s criminal about that?”

“Don’t you see the mention of Trevor’s former employers? They’re the ones accepting the shipment, they’re the ones who will be responsible for their safekeeping, and they’re the ones who will be handling the auction planned to dispose of it all.”

“I still don’t see what’s wrong with it,” I said, waiting for enlightenment.

“I believe Trevor confiscated this information while still in the employ of Bellamy and Bradstock, and he and Dorian were planning to rid them of their burden before auction. Do you see the sequence of numbers there? It’s a code that gives an agent the authority to access the bank’s vaults, where this property will be kept upon receipt of the shipment. This is, no doubt, the reason Dorian was killed, and without the information, Trevor would be unable to go ahead with their plans.”

“So then why did the man discard it?”

“I must confess,” Holmes said sheepishly, “I don’t know yet. I could guess he was afraid of it being found on his person, and so got rid of it quickly, before he could be searched. However, throwing it away in a trash bin seems a most uncertain manner of being able to retrieve it later. There is a code at the bottom which I cannot yet account for. Once I break that code, things will be clearer.”

“Why would he be searched? And why cause all the commotion in accusing Anna here of stealing it?”

“Also questions I can’t yet answer,” came the laconic reply. “But I will...” He turned to look out the window and Anna rose from her seat to pour tea. She refreshed Holmes’ cup and her own, and poured a fresh one for me as I sat on the sofa. As Anna handed a plate full of scones to me, I noticed the raw abrasions on her hands.

“What trouble have you gotten yourself into?” I asked her, taking one hand and examining it more closely.

She yanked the hand away from me, hiding it behind her back as if she were a child caught at stealing a cookie from the cookie jar.

“It’s nothing.”

Holmes had taken an interest in the brief episode, and he grinned. “Anna took me on an adventure last evening, Watson. And then she came to my rescue with a huge rock, which scraped her hands. I hate to think what that same rock did to my would-be assailant’s head.”

“You went out? In that night air? And how did you come to be accosted by someone you felt had to be hit with a rock?”

“It’s how we came to be in possession of this document, Watson.”

“And where was it that you were in the company of such ruffians?”

“Under the Waterloo Bridge, Watson. It’s where Anna had hidden it.”

I snorted my contempt, refusing to look at Anna. She stood before me, her hands still behind her back, braced, as if waiting for my vilest insult. I refused to give her the satisfaction. I continued speaking to Holmes as if she weren’t there.

“You could also have had a relapse,” I scolded him. “Do you really wish to return to your sick bed? Or perhaps that’s what you had in mind...” I muttered under my breath.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anna said, her voice quiet and even.

“Just that I believe there are better ways of nursing someone back to health,” I replied, hoping my face wasn’t reddening at the memory of what I’d seen Anna doing to Holmes.

She stared at me for a while longer, and I became aware of Holmes doing the same. Squirming uncomfortably under both gazes, I was relieved when Anna went to the table near the window and sat, although she kept sending me malevolent side glances. Holmes was frowning.

“What the devil are you going on about, Watson? Surely you don’t believe I’m as fragile as all that?”

“Nothing so important that we need to hash over it,” I replied. “What do you propose to do about that document?”

“Wait and see,” he answered. “Trevor must be getting most anxious about it...the date of the shipment and following auction is approaching. He’s bound to show up here sooner or later, looking for Anna.”

Privately hoping he would find her, I felt it would be wise for me to remove myself from those rooms. I was still unsure about what the gipsy woman was up to, and I resented that she had won over Holmes by seducing him, and had even enjoyed a friendship with my wife, who should have been wiser to the ways of treacherous women. Was I the only one to see what harm this gipsy was bringing into all of our ordered lives?

Gulping down the last of my tea, I stood, saying my goodbyes.

“You just got here,” Holmes protested. Anna said nothing.

“There are a few things I need to get done before dinner,” I said, excusing my abrupt departure. “I only popped in to see how you were faring.”

I nodded to Holmes, then glanced at Anna as I let myself out the door. She eyed me quietly, and I couldn’t tell what she might have been thinking. As I descended to the ground floor, it occurred to me that Anna must be aware I’d witnessed what had happened between her and Holmes that day during his illness. I could feel my face get hot all over again. Somehow, it was more embarrassing knowing she knew I had seen. I doubt I’d ever be able to look her in the eye again.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

I had voiced my wonder at Watson’s odd behavior, looking at Anna to see if she’d noticed anything amiss. She frowned, lowering her eyes to the table. Looking up again, having apparently come to some sort of decision, she answered.

“I think he knows what happened between us...while you were ill.”

“How can he possibly know that?” I asked her, once I found my tongue.

She shook her head. “He couldn’t have guessed,” she mused out loud. “As I recall, he came to the flat a while afterwards.” Her eyes suddenly flashed. “Oh, no...”

“What?”

“When he came in that day, I thought it odd that he was whistling, banging the door shut...I thought it strange that he would make all that noise while he knew you were so ill. Now I wonder...doesn’t that seem like the actions of someone who wanted to make sure to announce his presence?”

I could feel myself pale as I followed her line of reasoning. “He’d been in earlier, when we hadn’t heard him...”

“Well, no wonder he’s been trying to get me to leave,” she said.

“He hasn’t!”

“Well, he’s not quite as insistent about it as my tone implied, but yes, he keeps suggesting I look for another job, move on with my life.”

“One would think he’d be reacting quite differently,” I told her. “He did once bring up the subject of...” I cut off my words abruptly, not wishing to mention Watson’s idea of my getting married. I wasn’t quite ready to put any serious consideration into that, and I knew if she were aware of where my thoughts were heading, it would only serve to make me even more nervous and uncomfortable in her presence.

“Well, how did you think he would react?”

“I never considered it,” I admitted. “It never occurred to me that anyone, other than you and I, knew what had happened.” I could feel my face, even now, reddening as we discussed this delicate subject once again.

I stood up, eager to put the subject to rest. “There’s nothing more to do about this paper until Trevor makes his appearance. I’ve already alerted the Yard and Bellamy and Bradstock about it; the entry code numbers have been changed. I fear I won’t be able to get past the coded words at the bottom unless I take my mind away from it for a while.”

“Suppose Trevor suspects that’s what will happen,” she said. “The paper would then be useless to him, and we may never hear from him again.”

“An excellent point, Anna. But if he thinks the paper is still missing, that no one read it who would understand its implications, then he’d have no choice but to try to retrieve it. And if he’s convinced you still have it, we must do something to let him know I could conceivably tell him where to find you.”

“Why would he think I’d keep it? Wouldn’t he simply think I’d thrown away his purse once I’d taken the money from it?”

“That could have been done long before he chased you into the path of my cab that night,” I answered. “He was still pursuing you, and I assume the only reason would be that he believed you still had that document.” I paused, looking at her carefully. “There is no other reason, is there?”

“What do you mean?” Her confusion seemed sincere. I had no reason to believe she was hiding anything from me. Still, she was a woman who was used to using her wits to survive...

“I mean, can you think of any other reason he would pursue you?”

“No, not unless he thinks I read the paper and understood what it meant. Perhaps he was trying to find me to convince me to keep quiet. Or maybe...it could be that he had an idea of how to shut me up permanently.” She looked at me, worried, and I knew she was willing me to tell her she had nothing to fear.

Glancing again at the document on my desk, I remembered the value of the shipment coming in. It was over two million pounds of antiques, jewelry, and sundry items that would inspire even the weakest and most law-abiding citizen to consider murder.

Our dinner together that evening was a quiet affair, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I needed to know Trevor better, to know what might be going through his mind, now that he was walking freely about and still without the document. She, although nearly having died from exposure and malnutrition because of her life on the streets, was no doubt trying to understand that she might have an enemy stalking her who would actually kill her. Such knowledge would be a bitter pill to swallow, habituated as she must be to the hatred surrounding her and her race.

After dinner, she retired to her room, and I played my violin until its soothing melodies allowed me to relax enough to think I could sleep.

 

I became aware, little by little, of her presence near me. As sleep slowly lifted itself from my muddled brain, my eyes drifted open and I saw that she had lit a candle. In the near darkness of the room, I made out her shadowy shape sitting on my bed, one arm supporting her as she leaned casually toward my supine body. She was in her nightdress, and had one leg curled up, her bare knee inviting me to look for more of her flesh hiding beneath the gown. Her other leg was draped so that it hung down to the floor next to the bed. Her hair was down and fell partially over her shoulder, shining in the candle light. To see so much flesh exposed...I, who could become titillatingly embarrassed when catching a stolen glimpse of an exposed feminine ankle...

My heart began to pound as I mentally shrugged off the last remnants of sleep. “Anna, what are you doing in here?” I silently cursed the nervous tremor I could hear in my whispered words.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied simply. She looked at the flame of the candle as she continued. “I began to think about Dr. Watson’s abrupt departure this afternoon. About Trevor and his intentions toward me. About you...”

She looked back at me, and I hastened to meet her eyes, shadowed though they were. I didn’t want her to see that I had noticed the way her breasts moved ever so slightly under the thin material of her nightdress, the way I could see her nipples softly poking through. I didn’t want her to notice the way my chest was moving under my rapidly increasing breath. I didn’t want her to see that, under my nightshirt, I was becoming aroused.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” she was saying, “but I’m not...not really. Do you mind terribly?”

“No, I’m fully awake now.” A pitiful reply, but my brain refused to function. I could feel the heat of her body so close to mine, and other than one incident in my youth, where I sought the attentions of a prostitute, as every boy must, I had not been this close to a woman while being so scantily clad...well, not since my recent illness, but that had been beyond my control. Now I was fully conscious, and there was no reason for me not to admonish her and send her back to her own room.

She reached up to the ribbon at her neck, pulling it slowly to reveal the flesh underneath. I felt a twitch in response, and I lifted my leg to drape the duvet over me in such a way as to hide my undisciplined body’s reaction to her proximity and actions.

Pulling on the ribbon to open the nightdress more fully, she tossed her hair over her shoulder. As her fingers moved to the next ribbon, the one that hid her breasts from my sight, my breath hitched in my throat. Yet still I could not speak. I couldn’t form the words to stop her. She pulled the ribbon, and I saw that her nipples were hard. I gripped the counterpane of my blanket to prevent my treacherous hands from reaching out to her.

She leaned closer; I watched her tongue move sensuously over her bottom lip. I wet my own lips in response, and felt the ache of my hardness as it began to throb. I raised myself up on my elbows, intending to send her away. Things were getting dangerous, and she must leave before we stoked this fire further.

She came to me then, and I closed my eyes as she moved her lips softly and almost tentatively over mine. It was such a delicate, teasing touch, and I instinctively pressed my lips more firmly against hers. This wasn’t something I could ever have imagined, in all my lustful thoughts about her. And there had been so many times I hadn’t been able to meet her eyes, due to my erotic fantasies. Ever since I had first felt her hands on me, I could think of little else, and that these thoughts were coming to fruition almost overwhelmed me.

Shifting so the duvet would stop caressing my erection, I collapsed onto my back. She sat up and put her hand on my chest, as if feeling for my heartbeat under my nightshirt. I could feel how hot her hand was through the cotton, and I wondered how it was possible to feel myself hardening even more.

“Anna...”

I had no idea what I meant to say. I had no more control over my mouth than I had over any other part of me. She bent to kiss my neck, her hair falling to trickle over my face, and as I breathed in the fresh scent of it, I moved my hands to her hips, needing desperately to hold her, to feel something solid under my hands. As she moved her lips down my neck, I swallowed convulsively, and my hands slipped up to her waist, catching in the cloth still covering her.

Again sitting back, she quickly reached down to pull her gown up and off, revealing her naked body to me to glow softly in the flickering light of the candle. I began to feel light-headed, and it reminded me to draw in a deep breath before I blacked out. I had never seen a sight so exquisite as this beauty before me. She allowed me to look my fill, not shy enough to dive under the duvet, as one would expect.

It was more than I could bear. I reached for her, filling my hands with the tantalizing flesh of her breasts, my palms witness to the hard little pebbles that tipped them. Carefully moving over them, I used her sighs to learn how to touch her, how to make her feel at least a fraction of what I was feeling.

While I was concentrating on the way her pliant, yet firm flesh felt in my hands, she’d thrown off the duvet covering me from the waist down, and now I couldn’t hide my excitement from her. I felt her hand on my leg, seductively running up the inside of my thigh, and I moaned, knowing what was coming next. But she surprised me by sliding under the material of my nightshirt, over my hip and up to my chest. The shirt followed her, and I was exposed. I felt so naked, even in the barely lit room, and I realized it was her eyes that made me feel that way. She looked at every inch she exposed, and had none of the bashful manner one would expect from an unmarried woman. Although I shifted in embarrassment, I was aware of my heightened arousal as she openly appraised my body. I remembered that she’d seen me in such a state before, but at that time, I wasn’t aware, not nearly as aware of everything as right now.

She had taken me beyond proper Victorian thought, beyond my own personal point of no return. I took my shirt from her hands, lifting it over my head and tossing it aside. She placed her hands on my chest, her fingers teasing my own male nipples, and it sent a white-hot jolt of awareness throughout my fevered body. Who knew there could be any sensation at all there? She covered me with her soft, hot body, bending to kiss me, and I could feel her hip rubbing against my erection, trapping it beneath her. I moaned as my hips ground into hers, independent of my control.

I was aware of her breasts pressed against me; I could feel her hard nipples prodding me. Her lips nibbled mine, and as I felt her tongue pushing in, I opened my mouth to taste her. There were so many sensations coming over me all at once, and I could feel it all gathering in me, amassing at my center, and I silently begged her to touch my hard cock, needing to feel her hands on me, stroking me to relieve this mounting frenzy, this delirium.

As if she could hear my thoughts, she reached down to take me in her hand. I moaned into her mouth, suddenly afraid it would all end too soon. In a daze, I flipped us over, now covering her body with mine. I studied her face, gratified, yet awed by the passion I was seeing. She was breathing heavily, her breasts heaving, and her hands were running up and down my back, cupping my rear.

Following her example, which seemed to work so well, I moved my lips over her chin, drawing an invisible line down her throat, lingering where her pulse throbbed. Her creamy skin felt so good on my lips, and I teased the flesh of her shoulder. When she began to squirm under me, I ventured toward her breasts, emboldened by her sighs and moans of encouragement. Placing my leg between hers, I stopped, caught up in a surge of passion as her legs closed around it. She wanted this as much as I, and to know a woman who felt the things that I did...it did things to my mind as well as my body.

I captured her nipple in my mouth, running my tongue over it and pushing my groin into the cradle she created between her legs for me. She pushed against my other leg, and I obligingly brought it to position between hers. Groaning as she reached down to guide me to her entrance, I wished fervently that I knew more about women, about how they felt. Did she feel the same things I did? The same intensity and blinding need? I worried that once I entered her, once I penetrated her, I would not be able to control myself at all, and she would be left unsatisfied.

But I was beyond control already, and I pushed into her, lifting my head and groaning audibly as I felt her heat grip me. The hot, tight slipperiness of her enveloped me and I helplessly began to thrust in and out of her, so completely unable to slow down, hoping I wasn’t going to ruin this for her.

I looked into her eyes when I felt her moving under me, and I saw her passion increasing instead of dissipating. Again feeling like it would be good for both of us, I began to coordinate my movements with hers, and the rhythm we found stroked my mind as well as the rest of me. Now she was the one thrashing about unchecked, and it allowed me to imagine that I still had a measure of control. I could feel her heat intensifying around me, could feel her nails raking my back and shoulders.

“Oh, my Lord, Anna...yes...oh, yes...” My breathless words mingled with hers as I unconsciously increased my pace, her motions following mine flawlessly. I felt a sudden flaring of heat within her, and it triggered something in me that I could not define. Suddenly, she shifted her hips, allowing me a depth I thought I had already reached. My world began to shatter around me as she froze beneath me, her inner muscles seizing me with a force that sent me over.

_“Anna!”_ My last coherent thought as the stars exploded behind my eyelids was that she was experiencing what I was, that women were capable of orgasm, and I wondered how I had managed to live as long as I had without knowing it.

When I once more became aware of the world around me, I lifted myself from her so she could breathe. The impact of what we’d just done hit me fully, and I removed myself from her to lie next to her, wondering if I could yet save my soul from eternal damnation. I could still feel my body twitching, and each nerve ending was still highly charged.

I felt her move closer to me and I looked up to see her leaning on one arm, looking down at me. I couldn’t read the expression on her face. Worry? Regret?

“You’re not feeling guilty about this, are you?” she asked.

Yes, I was. But what would it make her feel about herself if I admitted that? I closed my eyes as she touched my face, her soothing fingers making me want to ignore the moral ramifications of our actions.

“We’ve done nothing wrong, Sherlock. It was beautiful.”

I raised my hand to cup her face, my fingers entangled in her hair. As I looked into her eyes, I could see my freedom. She could make me believe that not only was our lovemaking permissible, but that it had to happen. I smiled at her, finally able to accept my feelings for her.

She reached down to pull the duvet over us, and as she rested her head on my chest, I embraced her lightly and allowed the sweet relaxation of sleep to overtake me.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

It was with a light heart that I climbed the stairs to Holmes’ rooms. I had just caught sight of Anna beyond the Square, ostensibly running another of the many errands Holmes would have sent her on. I missed visiting with him, and fully resented that the confutative woman had driven me away. It was I who should have been able to drive _her_ away; after all, I had known Holmes for years, and was unquestionably his closest friend. This seductress could never come close to imitating the esteem in which I held the man.

Ascertaining from Holmes that Anna would be away with several errands, I settled in for a good, long visit. My friend was in fine spirits, and there was actually a bloom in his cheeks. He was once again in full health, and I wondered now why he’d sent Anna out instead of dealing with matters himself.

“I’m too well-known in certain areas,” he said, answering my question. “Sometimes a bit of stealth is called for. Anna is able to find answers without alerting her interviewee of her curiosity.”

“Although I don’t doubt her expertise in subterfuge,” I said, “there must be more to it than that. I can’t believe you’ve changed so much that you no longer wish for the thrill of the hunt.” It was the only remark I would allow myself to let him know I was aware of the changes Anna had brought to his personality.

“In due time, my friend. Anna is merely setting up the board and moving a pawn or two. Soon, the pieces will fall into place, and I’ll move my men—once I can be sure to protect the king.”

“The king?”

“Yes, Watson. There is more to that document than first meets the eye.”

Further questions only brought about vague answers and teasing hints as to his meaning. It stirred my liver to realize that Anna must, of course, know more of what was going on than I would learn from Holmes. How had it happened that she had usurped my position as his right hand and confidante?

Suddenly, I felt as if he were only tolerating my presence. I no longer felt as if I belonged there, discussing his cases and the behavior of our fellow citizens at large. It was a disorienting sensation, and as I rose to leave, I had to pause, allowing the brief vertigo to leave my head before continuing.

Making my excuses to Holmes, I was nonetheless wounded that he didn’t try to talk me into staying a while longer. My injured pride carried me down the stairs and to the street below, and as I stood before 221B, looking down the street, my mind was blank; I couldn’t decide what to do next.

Ultimately, I decided to head home. Mary would be out with her sewing circle friends or the Ladies of the Christian Mercies group, or wherever she went most mornings. It would give me an empty flat in which to absorb this new and unwanted theory that I was no longer needed. After so many years of playing sounding board to his developing theories and gathering information from his case files for my articles in _The Strand_ , it seemed I would need a bit of time to sort out this sudden feeling of inadequacy.

Mary, however, happened to be at home when I arrived. As she found me idle for the day, she engaged my help in her various daily chores and errands, simply because I had not the presence of mind to make excuses. The day fairly flew by, and I was at once grateful that I would not be allowed to brood, but also irritated that I was not given the time to adjust.

By the time our evening meal was finished, and Mary had settled down with her needlepoint works, I had determined to go back to Holmes’ flat and see if perhaps I’d been a bit hasty in my conclusions. I chose to walk there, as the evening was mild, and as I cut across the Square, heading to Baker Street, I was surprised to almost bump into Holmes himself.

“My word, Holmes,” I called out gaily as he started to pass by without acknowledging me. “Where are you off to? I was just about to call on you.”

He seemed quite agitated, in so completely the opposite of the cheerful and optimistic attitude of that morning. Frowning, he put his hand on my shoulder, urging me to stand closer to the bank building behind us, out of the way of passing pedestrians.

“I’m more than a bit worried,” he told me. “I haven’t heard from Anna since she left this morning, and I fear she may have run into some trouble. I’m trying to trace the steps I believe she would have taken, considering what I had asked her to do. Would you come along? I could use another point-of-view.”

Happy at last to again be his ear, his confederate, I fell into step beside him. “And where would she have gone, then?”

“To the train station, Watson. She was to head for Bedford and see if anyone was lurking about the house of Dorian. I wanted her to tell whatever household staff that still remained that she had a message for Dorian, as if she didn’t know he’d been killed.”

“And what would be the purpose in that?”

“I was sure the message would find its way back to Trevor. It would have ensured that he step up his plans to retrieve his document. That was to be the message,” he added. “She was to let it be known that she still had it, and was willing to negotiate for its return.”

“And did she ever get to Dorian’s house?”

“I have no way of knowing,” he admitted. “There were a few other people I wanted her to see, but it would do no good overlooking any of her stops. Harm could have befallen her at any point.”

“I did see her this morning,” I told him. “She was making her way across the Square, but it didn’t look to me as if she were headed for the station. She was walking in that direction.” I pointed off to my right.

“When was this, Watson?”

“As close as I can figure, it would have been around nine o’clock.”

“That’s when she left the flat. If she didn’t go to the station, I wonder where she did go?”

He had stopped in the middle of the pavement at my words, ignoring the few people who had to move around us. Gazing off into the distance where I’d indicated, he appeared deep in thought, so I hesitated to question him further. His eyes came to rest on Tom, his informant friend, who’d been lurking in the doorway just beyond us. After a few words with him, Holmes returned to where I was standing, looking upset.

“He’s not seen her all day,” he said. “She’s been missing for almost ten hours now. Without knowing what she was thinking, I have no way of knowing where to search.”

It was painful for me to watch the helplessness in his features. He had, in the past, always had a plan, always had known what his next step would be. Now, to find him at such a loss, I began to wonder if the powers that rule over man had perversely decided to grant me my wish that Anna be gone from our lives. It would pay to be careful what one wished. I had never wanted any harm to come to her, and it was beginning to look as though that was the only explanation for her disappearance.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

I frantically tried to rein in my worries, knowing it would take a logical mind to assess the situation and find all possible options. I headed toward the direction Watson had indicated, not knowing what to do once I cleared the area of the Square. There were so many routes she could have taken at that point, and by the time I could cover them all, who knew what would have become of Anna? Even now, there was no way of knowing if I was too late in searching for her. I never should have sent her out this morning.

I crossed Marylebone Road, heading for Regent’s Park. It occurred to me that she may have been trying to approach the gipsy band that had been camping within, and I wondered at that. They weren’t of the same race as she; they were Nads, while she was of the Romany clan. Would they have allowed her to approach? Would they have simply treated her as they would a non-gipsy, chasing her away or feeding her lies to her questions? Wishing I knew more about gipsy relations, I walked quickly through the park to where I knew them to have camped.

Watson, stout chap that he was, fought to keep up. I shortened my strides, partly in deference to his shorter legs, but mostly because I didn’t know what I would do if I found the Nads. But as we neared the far corners of the park, I saw that the camp was still intact, and there seemed to be a good crowd of people milling about. I joined them, looking for someone with an air of authority. I bypassed the men who were shouting their lures, carefully moving inward to the center of the camp.

There were several old men sitting near a campfire, and more women on the outskirts of it. Gipsy children were running about, dancing to the violin music and teasing each other. I went straight to the oldest-looking man near the fire, checking to make sure Watson hadn’t gotten lost.

The old gipsy looked up at me, suspicious, and I felt more than heard and saw the ranks closing in. I squatted down so I was at the same eye level as the old man, and asked him for a few minutes. He narrowed his eyes at me, but I knew he’d listen; I could feel the men around him relaxing just a bit.

“I’m looking for a Romany woman,” I started, stopping my words at his smile.

“You won’t find her here, mister. My women are all Nad.”

“I realize that, old boy,” I said, returning his smile. “She isn’t of your tribe, but I think she may have come here earlier today, seeking help perhaps, or asking questions. You’ve not seen her?”

He looked behind him, and at his nod an old woman came forth, depositing the child she’d been holding to a younger woman at her side.

“My name is Tadzen, by the way,” the old man said. “This is my wife, Rosa.”

I tipped my hat at them both. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend, Dr. John Watson.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, turning to speak to Rosa in a language that sounded like a cross between Russian, Polish, and Hungarian. None of the languages I could hope to eavesdrop upon; not with any confidence, at any rate. Turning back to me, he nodded.

“She has been here. Anna Williams. She is well-known in our circle.”

“Really? How is that?” I had no idea how gipsies interacted with each other’s clans, and the more I could learn, the better I could track her movements.

“She has been fleeing from one of your countrymen,” came the answer. “She is still fleeing, it seems. There was another white man coming here twice before, asking us about her. And this morning, she asked us questions about him. She wanted to know if he had come to us asking for her, thinking she was one of us.”

“And what did you tell him? What did you tell Anna this morning?”

“We told him nothing,” he said derisively. “What right does that white man have to come here demanding our help? We only tolerate you because we know who you are. We are an honest band, and have nothing to fear from you.”

“Thank you. And Anna? Were you able to tell her anything?”

“No. We have not seen the white man she spoke of in many months. We couldn’t help her at all.”

“She left you then?”

“So it would seem. I didn’t watch her leave.” He turned again to Rosa, speaking his gibberish, and looked at me carefully before continuing. “Rosa advised her to seek her answers at the Waterloo Bridge,” he said. “There was trouble there, down on the other side, where the water meets the road. The word ‘gipsy’ was bandied about.” He spat into the fire. “With all the dissidents living there on the street, it’s still a gipsy that must have done it,” he added sardonically.

Looking up at me, he continued. “Ask your questions now, Holmes,” he said. “Tomorrow we will be gone. We will be gone before the white policemen come asking questions about the piece of filth who had his brains bashed in with a rock. By a gipsy.” He spat into the fire once again.

“I know about that incident,” I told him. “And I know who was responsible. I’ll put in a good word for you with the police. The person responsible saved both our lives by doing so.”

He raised his eyebrows, but asked no questions. Nodding to include all those around the fire, I rose and Watson and I made our way past the confidence games going on to head back to Marylebone Street. When we had left the relative quiet of the park, Watson leaned heavily against a lamp post, exaggerating his panting, seeking sympathy. “I say, old boy,” he said between breaths. “We will be hailing a cab before heading out to Waterloo Bridge, won’t we?”

“I’m not sure we should go there,” I answered, giving him a few moments’ respite while I lighted my pipe. “She’d be a fool to return there, and as the trouble is something she’s already aware of, I gather that the only current news we’ve gotten is that Anna was here. At least we’re on the right path. The question is, where would she have gone from here?”

Looking around, hoping for inspiration, I was dismayed to find night falling fast. Should I have sent Watson to my flat, in the event that Anna would return there? Once the Nads proved to be no help to her, where else would she have sought answers? Had she seen any of the people I had asked her to see this morning?

One of those with whom I needed an interview was her former employer. Since his estate was on the far reaches of Westminster, I flagged down a cab and gave the driver my address. Leaving Watson at 221B, with strict instructions to keep Anna there if she returned, I continued on in the cab to Hyde Park. It was a long enough trip for me to chastise myself over every error I’d made since first meeting Anna. By the time the cab stopped at the stately manor of Sir Barrish, I had begun to wonder if Anna hadn’t been taken, but rather had fled my company.

I approached the gates, pushing one open and making my way to the main house. Searching through the dense gardens all around, I strained my ears to hear the sound of approaching guard dogs. It seemed impossible that such an estate wouldn’t keep them, and there had been no way to announce my presence.

I faced the front door, and confidently lifted the knocker. It would appear by the lack of security that the Barrish household didn’t worry about unwelcome visitors, and when the door opened, I asked for an audience with the good Sir Barrish. The valet ushered me into a sitting room, where I was asked to be seated and to make myself comfortable while the man was sent for.

Looking around, I noticed with approval that, although clearly there was wealth to be had in being related to the House of Lords, the room was furnished more modestly than it could have been. It would have been easy to see children in this room, studying, or in a similar room, playing or sleeping. I could envision Anna taking them through their lessons, and releasing them to the large gardens afterward. It couldn’t have been easy to leave this place.

“Good evening, good sir,” came a voice behind me. So lost in my musings was I, I hadn’t even heard him approach. I was losing my touch.

Standing belatedly and extending my hand, I greeted him as I would a friend of short acquaintance. “Sir Barrish, I’m Sherlock Holmes. Might I have a word?”

“You don’t have to introduce yourself to me, Mr. Holmes. Your reputation precedes you. I’m honored to make your acquaintance. But you’ve not come with bad news, I hope?”

“I’ve come with some questions, if you wouldn’t mind,” I answered genially.

He waved me to sit, taking the chair opposite my seat on the sofa. “Please, whatever I can do.”

“Thank you. It’s about your former governess, Miss Anna Williams.”

“Oh, dear,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly. “I hope she’s not got herself into trouble?”

“It would depend on what you mean by ‘trouble’,” I said, wondering if now he would choose his words more carefully. “I’ve come to know her,” I continued, “and I’m trying to help her get out from under the trouble that has been plaguing her for quite some time now. I understand you let her go when Laurence Trevor accused her of theft.”

“Yes, although I never believed it. She was of high moral standards and integrity. Else, I wouldn’t have her here, setting examples for my children.”

“And yet you discharged her.”

“That was not my choice,” he said ruefully. “I had to do it, because if the public were to find out I was employing a gipsy to tutor my children, if my brother’s name were to be brought into any questionable happenings...well, he could say goodbye to his seat. He’d take a gun to my head before he’d let that happen. And, well...I was sure she could find another position soon. She was very good with my children, and easy enough to get along with.”

“She couldn’t find another position,” I told him, allowing the slightest bit of censure into my voice. “She had been wondering if you were providing a negative reference. She’s had nothing but bad luck ever since. Trevor had been aggressively pursuing her, and times were hard. She was living in a doorway under the bridge until I found her. She nearly died of exposure and malnutrition.”

His eyes had widened upon hearing it. “Good Lord, man, had I but known...”

“I trust you’re no longer worried about the stigma of hiring a gipsy to tutor your children?”

“There must surely be greater priorities,” he said. “Even my brother wouldn’t have wished that upon her.”

I decided I had better give him the benefit of the doubt, and anyway, it didn’t matter to her current situation. She was still missing, and repairing her reputation wouldn’t change that.

“I hired her to be my assistant,” I told him. “She’s been my legs and ears when I was too ill to carry on myself. She has also proven invaluable in arranging my work in sensible order. However, she’s gone missing now. I haven’t seen her since nine this morning, and I fear Trevor may have caught up to her.”

“I thought that Trevor fellow had been arrested with his co-conspirators.”

“They couldn’t hold him. Lack of evidence. How much do you know about that case?”

“Only what I’ve read in the papers,” he answered. “Why is Trevor so insistent about getting to her; is he that upset about a mere stolen purse?”

“There was something in that purse that meant more to him than the few notes he had.”

“What?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” I said. “Suffice it to say that it was important enough to put Anna’s life in danger. I had asked her to stop and see you today, to get some information from you. You haven’t seen her?”

“No, not at all. I haven’t seen her since she left here, last year sometime.”

“Then I’ll not take up any more of your time,” I said, rising. “If you do, for some reason, hear from her, I would appreciate it if you would let me know. And one thing I would like you to take seriously, Sir Barrish. You need a good security force protecting your home and your children. Trevor has plans I hope to make public soon.”

Waving off his questions, assuring him that Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard would be in touch soon, I hastened to make my exit.

He saw me to the door himself, shaking my hand once again and reminding me to tell Anna she had a position here if she wanted, if she could forgive him for discharging her in the first place. “There comes a time when you have to tell the public to be damned,” he said self-righteously. I declined to answer, already wondering where I’d look next.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

As I heard Holmes’ tread on the stairway, I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat. In all the time I’d waited here in his sitting room, Anna had not shown up, and I didn’t want to have to tell him that. Memories of his despair and melancholia came back to me as I recalled his fits of despondency when he didn’t know who she was. This would only make things worse, now that he’d grown closer to her and would feel directly responsible for her disappearance, as he was the one who’d sent her out this morning.

He pushed open the door, glancing at me, then his eyes quickly searched the room. Seeing her bedroom door closed, he looked back at me, raising his eyebrows in question. I shook my head. “I haven’t heard from her, Holmes. Have you any news from Barrish?”

“None.”

He took off his greatcoat and hat, retrieving his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket and replacing them on the mantle. Moving to the chair before the fireplace, he sat down heavily, looking for all the world like someone who’d run out of answers.

“Perhaps the local constabulary might be of assistance?”

“I stopped in on the way home,” he said. “Nothing.”

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door before entering, handing me a message. Holmes looked up hopefully.

“Mary demands my presence at home,” I said, hating myself. “She’s a bit worried; apparently I’ve been gone longer than she expected.”

“You’d better hurry along, then, Watson. I don’t want her after me.” His voice was too weary to convey the humor the words hinted at.

“Perhaps she simply sought shelter wherever she is,” I said in a vain attempt to cheer him. “It is getting late, after all, and the city streets are no place for an unescorted lady to wander about in at this hour.”

He nodded, and I could see him making an effort to reassure me that all would be well. “There are still a few avenues of information I might try,” he said, the lie barely making it past his lips. “Don’t you worry about it. Come morning, everything will be all right.”

I let myself out the door, knowing the morning would find Holmes a mere shadow of himself.

 

A full day had gone by, and still no word from Anna. Holmes had questioned and questioned again every source of information he’d ever employed, and still nothing. Nor could he learn anything from keeping Laurence Trevor under his watchful eye. The man was nowhere to be found, and Holmes couldn’t get any information from Mrs. Trevor.

The Nad gipsies had moved on, creating a space in Regent’s Park, and the only gipsies left in the area were those few individuals that had not been a part of the camps. None were Anna.

Holmes had ventured bravely into the warren of misfits under Waterloo Bridge, but had come up empty. The precinct station had nothing to offer, and even Tom, the permanent doorway resident of the Square near Baker Street, had no new information to offer. Holmes and I were just returning to 221B from Mycroft’s club, empty of hope. Even the all-knowing Mycroft Holmes hadn’t a clue. One could cut through Holmes’ depression and anxiety with a knife.

I had broken down and related to Mary what was happening, as she had been beginning to complain that she hadn’t heard from Anna. My wife was popular, but was always looking to cultivate new friendships, and she’d really gotten on well with Anna, at once being charmed by her exotic personality, and in general approval of her overall demeanor and manners. And there was just enough young girl left in Mary that she appreciated the fun-loving, devil-may-care attitude Anna tended to display from time to time.

Mary immediately suggested searching the churches in the area, stating with conviction that a priest was always someone to turn to in times of need. When a gipsy wouldn’t trust a policeman, surely she would at least trust a priest? And weren’t many gipsies Catholic anyway?

I had voiced my ignorance of Anna’s religious beliefs, but had given Holmes her advice. Holmes, not believing it, had nonetheless taken the suggestion seriously, but Anna had not sought help from any of the theologians in the area.

As we neared 221B, Holmes turned his collar up against the night air, then pulled out his pipe, standing before the steps and lighting it. “Watson, I believe I’ll walk on; I need the brisk night air to fuel my thoughts.”

“You don’t want company?”

“I don’t mean to offend, dear boy, but even my own footsteps are proving a distraction.”

Stifling my wounded ego, I agreed to wait in his sitting room, leafing through his cases. _The Strand_ was pushing for the next chapter in Holmes’ adventures, and so my time would be well spent.

“Fine. Feed them the old Countess D’Ardelby case,” he said. “Make sure you change the names, though they’ll be recognized anyway.”

With that, I took to his rooms and he continued down the street. It seemed hours before I heard from him again. Hours where I paced, looking out the window to the street below; hours where I opened the door, only to close it again in indecision; hours of reading the same sentence over and over again.

As I studied the empty street below, I told myself, “One more minute of this...I’ll go fetch the constable.” As I looked at the clock again, I quietly said, “Three more minutes...I’ll send for Lestrade.” As I closed the door to remain in the sitting room, I promised myself, “Another quarter-hour, and I’ll have Mrs. Hudson send for the boy...Mycroft must know that his brother has gone missing as well.”

I took no action, so blindly and strongly was I inclined to believe that Holmes had the situation in hand, that I was worrying needlessly, and to interfere now would be to sign his death warrant, and possibly Anna’s as well. For this delay could only mean he’d found her, could it not?

The waiting was driving me into a fever, and I resolutely threw on my coat, grabbed my hat and cane, and threw open the door, refusing to allow my mind to change. Below me, the outside door opened to let in Holmes, who held open the door to let Anna in behind him. I leaned over the rail, calling down to them my exasperation.

“While I sit here worrying, you took in a ballet?”

I didn’t know whether I was upset at worrying over nothing, or relieved at the laughter in their voices as they greeted me. Mrs. Hudson came to the hallway with a lit candle, trying to hush them all up.

“For goodness sake, Mr. Holmes!” she said. “It’s almost midnight, and here you are, gallivanting around and waking the whole neighborhood. Close that door, child!”

Anna closed the door softly, and the pair of them came running up the stairs like children set loose after Sunday school. I returned to the sitting room before them, returning my coat and hat to the stand and seating myself on the sofa. I wouldn’t leave until I heard the entire story, Mary be damned.

As Anna put her coat and hat in her room, Holmes stoked the fire I’d started. By the time Anna returned to the room and Holmes had taken a seat behind his desk, Mrs. Hudson had come up with a tea tray. Any other lodger would have gotten the rough edge of her tongue, but it was clear she considered Holmes her pet. With another warning about keeping the noise down at this late hour, she left the rooms.

Anna poured tea all around, and I helped myself to Mrs. Hudson’s scones. Anna leaned back against the table in the corner, unbraiding her hair. Her cheeks were flushed with the night air, and I glanced at Holmes, who was gazing at Anna. His cheeks, too, were reddened, and he looked happy. Not just relieved, but happy.

I knew the story I was about to hear would be full of evasions, and perhaps that’s as it should be. Some things are too private to speak of.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

A clear testament to the confusion infesting my brains, she came from out of nowhere. I felt a tremendous pull on my arm; it caused my pipe to go flying. I heard it land somewhere beyond where I was being pulled, and my free hand automatically came up to stop me from slamming into the wall of the building. I was in a dark alley off the Square, and I whipped around, seeking the identity of my assailant. Anna stood there, smiling widely, her finger touched to her lips, warning me to keep quiet.

My sudden relief at seeing her unharmed caused me to feel light-headed, and in a sudden shyness, I looked down to where my pipe lay on the ground. Moving to pick it up, I was again surprised to feel her at my back, urging me further down the alley. When I felt her stop, I did as well, and turned to see if it was safe to speak. She was looking back the way we’d come, and I could feel her tension.

I cleared my throat, simply so I could again breathe without obstruction, and it caused her to push me back against the wall. She leaned into me, and I didn’t know if it was her proximity or her urgency that caused my heart to pound. Looking beyond the alley entrance, I could see no one stirring about, and I waited, wondering where she’d been all day, and from whom were we hiding?

She looked back at me, smiling apologetically and moving away from me. Already I missed her warmth. “Do you carry a revolver?” she asked quietly.

“Of course not,” I whispered back. “Why do we need one?”

“Trevor is out there, and he might have seen me heading this way. We can’t stay here. I’ve seen that he does carry a firearm of some sort. He means to use it. Have you heard from Sir Barrish?”

“I’ve seen him in my search for you,” I answered. “When are you going to tell me what happened?”

“As soon as I can,” she promised. Looking down the other side of the alley, where I could see nothing but darkness, she took my hand in hers and led the way deeper into the gloom. Hoping her night vision was better than my own, I followed blindly, waiting to hear the crash of trash bins and yowling alley cats that would give away our position.

She pulled me around the corner of a building, pushing me again to the wall, and then peering around the side. Not wanting to burst her bubble of security, I hesitated to tell her we might be exposed to him to our left, as the shorter alley might be just where he waited. No need, though, because she noticed it almost as soon as the thought entered my own mind. Frowning her indecision, she blew her straying hair from her eyes. Glancing up, she smiled and I followed her look. There was a fire escape within our reach, and if we moved slowly, we could scale the ladder without too much noise. I nodded my understanding to her, and reached up to pull down the rungs.

We were almost to the top, heading for a window, or if the window proved to be locked, the roof, when I heard running footsteps under us. Glancing down as Anna fought with the window, I saw a shape which must have been Laurence Trevor almost directly under us.

Hearing Anna mutter what could only be a gipsy curse, I inwardly cheered as the window flew open at her tugging. Throwing herself inside, she reached to help me in, and I leaned back out the window, pleased to see that Trevor was too short to reach the bottom rung of the ladder. I pulled my head back in quickly as he fired his pistol at me.

“He’s certainly playing for keeps,” I muttered. I locked the window behind us, and turned to see Anna frowning at me.

“Why did you lock it?” she asked. “If he’s bold enough to fire a gun, he won’t hesitate to break a window.”

I simply shrugged. Old habits die hard. I thought to at least slow him down. Anna pulled me along behind her as she pulled open the door to the room. Heading down a silent and dark hallway, I surmised that we were in an office building, and wondered how long it would take for our intrusion to be noticed. We could do with a few constables about now. Our legs and ability to hide would be no match for Trevor’s pistol if he found another way in.

We found an empty room, once apparently used as an office, and I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. It wasn’t every day I was fired upon, and the adrenaline was slowly leaving me, my body beginning to tremble in its wake. My eyes flew open upon feeling Anna’s heat and weight against me. My body was hardening in memory of the things her body could make me feel.

Feeling my response, she moved her hips against me, causing me to groan out loud.

“My God, woman, our lives are in danger, and you’re feeling...amorous? You find it romantic that someone is trying to kill you?”

“Not romantic, really,” she purred, her voice in my ear making my knees go weak. “But exciting, yes. I missed you.”

My arms had come up to hold her close against me. “And I missed you. I was afraid I’d never see you again; I had no idea what had happened to you.”

She kissed me then, cutting off my words. No matter; I had no words to describe my feelings, then or now. Words were overrated...

She opened my coat, then my waistcoat, pulling on the buttons of my shirt. Her hands were cool on my heated skin, and I lifted my chin as she moved her lips over my throat, where she nipped at the pulse beating there. Feeling her hand move to cup me, rubbing against my hardness, I gasped, passion raging through me. I forgot where we were, forgot why we were here, forgot everything but what she was doing to me.

“Oh, God, Anna...yes...ohh...” She’d been fumbling with my fly, and she freed me from my cloth prison, wrapping her hand around me, stroking. How exquisite her touch! How skillfully she played! I locked my knees to avoid collapsing at her feet, and my hands reached out around me, seeking purchase but finding none. They flailed uselessly, finally coming to settle on her shoulders, where I gripped tightly. Before I knew it, she was kneeling before me, probably taking my grip on her as a request to move down.

My God, what was she _doing_? “Anna!” I called out, more than startled. She was disinclined to answer, and I felt the heat of her mouth, of her breath, on my most private part. Looking down, I watched helplessly as she tasted me, the sensation of her tongue on me, stroking a line upward to my glistening head. It stopped any further words from leaving my mouth.

She took me into her mouth, and I could feel the gentle suction as she played her tongue over me, could feel the jolting shock of her teeth as they nibbled. Groaning, I clenched at her shoulders, heedless of the bruises I was surely putting on them.

I forgot all about our friend Trevor as I concentrated on remaining upright, the wall taking all my weight because my legs were rendered useless. I watched the most erotic sight I’d ever been witness to as she moved her mouth over me, pulling me in and out, her tongue swirling over me with every stroke. My mouth was dry, my breath panting in and out between moans. She reached up with one hand and cupped my testicles, pushing them upward against my shaft. My moaning became a mantra of gasps and groans as I felt her chin bumping into my tightened sac with each pass. I could feel my orgasm building up, and I fought to find the words to tell her so.

“Anna...oh, God, Anna...I’m going...it’s getting so...oh...ohhh...” A red haze filled my vision, and my mind could only focus on what I was feeling. I knew I should stop her. I couldn’t do it...I couldn’t...form words...

Praying she knew what was about to happen, I waited to feel her pull away, I mentally begged her to pull away... It was too late. I couldn’t stop, and I couldn’t warn her. As everything inside me clenched up, preparing for the explosion, I had time to think, in an abstract way, that because of my lack of control, I was about to destroy the relationship between myself and the only woman I would ever love.

It was a fleeting thought; most of my mind was on the white-hot heat inside me, coiled like an over-wound spring about to be released. I gave up, and lost my mind in the waves of my eruption, each shuddering jerk of my body another testament to the power of what she made me feel. I finally released my death grip on her shoulders and my head fell back against the wall, my legs shaking as they fought to keep me standing. I was aware of her placing me back into my trousers only because each touch sent another jolt through me. I felt as if I wouldn’t be able to take a step, even should Trevor come through the door.

She stood before me, buttoning my shirt once again, smoothing the material over my chest. By the time she finished with my waistcoat and pulled my coat shut to button that, I had caught my breath enough to speak. If only I had words...

She quirked one eyebrow at me, smiling with one corner of her mouth, and I began to think perhaps I hadn’t destroyed anything after all. If she could look at me without hatred, without disgust and loathing, perhaps it hadn’t come as such a surprise to her. And just how did this young woman learn to do what she’d just done? It was a question I knew I’d never ask her. The answer could never be as important as the result.

She took both my hands in hers and pulled me gently with her as she lowered herself until she was sitting on the floor. I sat before her, still speechless in wonder and awe.

“I never made it to Bedford,” she said, seemingly to continue a non-existent conversation. “I talked to the gipsies at Regent’s Park, then started to go to Paddington Station, but I never made it. Trevor found me.”

“What happened?” My heart was approaching its normal rate.

“He grabbed me, holding his repulsive hand over my mouth, and got into a carriage. It wasn’t a cab, I don’t believe, because it took off without his telling the driver where to go. I struggled, but he showed me his gun. He asked me for the document, but I told him I didn’t have it; I had hidden it. We argued about it—he didn’t believe I still had it—and I told him what I found on it.

“I didn’t tell him I understood what it all meant, of course,” she continued. “But I was trying to get him to believe he had to come with me to get it back. I was going to lead him to you somehow.

“He put handcuffs on me,” she said, outrage in her voice now. “Then he covered my eyes with a scarf. Eventually, the carriage stopped, and he dragged me out of it. I remember going through a gate, which squeaked on its hinges, then down three steps and through a door. He sat me down on a dusty-smelling sofa and pulled the scarf from my eyes. He warned me that the neighborhood was deserted, and no one would hear me if I screamed, but that I’d better not because it would irritate him and he’d have to beat me.

“Then he ordered me to tell him where the document was, and he told me that if it was indeed where I claimed it to be, I would be turned loose unharmed. His eyes told a different story, though,” she finished, her eyes faraway as she remembered.

“He was going to kill me.”

My heart was pounding again, this time with delayed fear for her welfare. I couldn’t argue; of course Trevor would have killed her. She was the one connection he had to fear; one who knew what he was planning, and one who knew how he was going to accomplish it. I reached for her, pulling her close and leaning back against the wall, smoothing my hand down her back.

She put her hand on my chest as she continued.

“He left then, because I told him the document was hidden under Waterloo Bridge. Then I picked the lock on the handcuffs and began to work on the lock on the door.”

“You escaped the handcuffs?” I asked incredulously.

She looked at me, sniffing her derision. “Of course. You think I can’t pick a lock? Sherlock, they were simple handcuffs, not a bank vault.”

“Oh, I see.” I grinned at her injured pride. “Nothing to you, then. I suppose the lock on the door was no hindrance, then?”

“You suppose wrong. It was a lock I’d never come across before, and I didn’t take into consideration that he’d left his driver outside, keeping watch. He came in when he heard me bothering the lock. I had to run all over the house to evade him. I found the door to the cellar and eventually made my way out, but there seemed to be only one way out of the garden, and I’d have to pass him to get there. It was more of a courtyard, and I was forced to hide in a tree until dark.”

“Which explains why I couldn’t find any word of you anywhere. I questioned the gipsies in the park, by the way. They’ve gone by now.”

“They were planning to leave anyway,” she said. “Don’t think it was you who scared them off.”

“I didn’t. I thought it was fear of police questioning them about the man by the bridge who’d been beaten with a rock that moved them on.”

“Oh, dear...they’re not being blamed for that, are they?”

“Not officially; not without proof. That one will be a case that’s never solved, as far as I’m concerned.”

She smiled, acknowledging my show of loyalty.

“So, how did you get out of the garden?”

“I had to wait until the driver gave up and left, probably to seek out Trevor and explain to him what happened. I fled the garden, but on my way back to the station, I saw Trevor again, and so I turned away, heading back toward the park. I didn’t want to get the Nads caught up in my troubles, but I thought I could blend in when necessary and hide in the park until Trevor was gone again.”

“Did he follow you to the park?”

“Not that I know of. I finally fell asleep among the trees, not waking until morning. But when I was heading out of the park, a strange man tried to grab my arm, and he was shouting out something like, ‘Here she is!’ or similar, and I realized that Trevor had friends I wasn’t aware of. I fled back to the park, hiding in the trees again. I was afraid to come out until after dark, because everyone I saw could well have been one of Trevor’s accomplices.”

“For all that time?”

“Yes. I knew you’d be worried, but I was hoping Trevor would go to the bridge and the people there would take care of him. You know how territorial they are.”

“I am beside myself with joy and relief to see you safe and sound,” I told her. “But to keep us both that way, we’d better see what our friend Trevor is up to.”

I walked over to the window, seeing no one wandering the Square below except for the odd pedestrian or two, none of whom were Trevor. Gesturing for her to follow, I led the way back down the hall to the room where we’d first entered the building, cautiously pushing open the door in the unlikely event that Trevor had found his way up the ladder. The room was empty, and I crossed over to the window, looking for him in the alley. All was clear.

“You don’t suppose he changed his mind and decided to go ahead with his plans?” she asked fearfully.

“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” I said. “I sent word to Inspector Lestrade about the document and what it all meant. When I was at the Barrish estate, I worried about his lack of security. By now, he has the finest the Yard has to offer swarming around, just waiting for Trevor to make his move.”

“So, Sir Barrish knows, then.”

“I didn’t tell him while I was there, but surely Lestrade must have told him everything by now. By the way, you have your old position back, if you decide to pursue it. Sir Barrish has had a change in attitude. He never believed Trevor, you know.”

“Then how could he have gone along with it?” she pouted, unforgiving of the man. “He could have spared me a year of destitution and fear.”

“In all fairness, I don’t think it ever crossed his mind how serious it all was.” I felt disloyal for defending the man’s jaded priorities. “It was his brother who demanded your discharge. Being in the public eye, and all that. Wanting to avoid any hint of a scandal.”

“I imagine he thinks I’m a part of Trevor’s plans to kidnap his children,” she said. “How else would he be able to get to them?”

“It will all come out in court,” I assured her. “He won’t get away with implicating you with everything that’s happened. I expect him to fall apart completely, knowing we’ve thwarted his desire to get millions of pounds in one fell swoop; the jewels up for auction, and the hostages he would have had by using Barrish’s children. Besides, I’ll be at the trial as an interested party, and my testimony has never yet been refuted.”

She came to stand next to me, leaning into me and kissing my cheek. “My knight in shining armor,” she whispered, her voice caressing me and doing things to my body.

I smiled at her in the darkness of the room. “I think we should try to make our escape. It’s probably better if we venture downstairs and see if we can alert at least one of the tenants of these offices. Let them bring the constable with them. I don’t think either of us is up to much more excitement tonight.”

She laughed her agreement, and I led her by the hand downstairs to the lobby of the building, where we searched the streets outside the window for any sign of Trevor. Since we didn’t see him, I unlocked the front door and hailed a passerby.

“Do you suppose you could fetch me a constable, sir? There’s been a break-in.”

The man tipped his hat and continued on his way, as if it were something that happened every night. Not fifteen minutes later, a constable made his way toward the door, his torch shining into my face and demanding an explanation. I began telling him our story as he poked around the lobby, wondering if a full-building search was in order. Obviously, my name meant nothing to him, and I fought to curb my growing irritation. Seeing no other way out of this predicament, Anna and I followed along with him back to the station, where we spent two hours discussing the whys and wherefores of the Trevor business, until finally, Clark showed up—my light at the end of the tunnel.

“See here, why are you holding Mr. Holmes?” he demanded of my warden.

“He was illegally trespassing, sir.”

“Was he now?” After giving Clark the outline of what I’d been telling his subordinate for the last two hours, he waved the constable away with an order to get back to his patrol.

“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes,” he said cheerfully. “I can’t be everywhere at once, but I came as soon as I heard you were here. Lestrade from the Yard has been in touch, and he’s told me what’s happening over at the Barrish estate. I hope your Trevor does make a move. Then we’ll have him and this whole nasty business will be finished. In any event, we’ll have him. I sent a few of my men to his house in Whitechapel.”

Anna and I made our way back to 221B, laughing and running like children, the relief in her future freedom apparent in our steps.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

I sat at the breakfast table, shaking out my newspaper before folding it as Mary cleared away our lunch dishes.

I no longer resented Anna’s entry into Holmes’, and indeed, my life. They were simply too happy together to allow my resentment to continue to grow. Indeed, that resentment had been dwindling down to practically nothing, ever since I began to feel guilty over her disappearance, feeling it was my ill-will that caused it to happen.

Still, I must admit I would always feel a twinge of regret that the friendship I enjoy with Holmes must take a backseat to his relationship with Anna. It had been a friendship of countless years, and I have lately begun to read again the chronicles I’d written, beginning with my first meeting of Holmes. It was a happy trip down memory lane, and my nostalgia was bittersweet.

But I was smug in the knowledge that he could no longer consider himself as a misogynist. Anna, to her credit, had left Holmes’ flat to live in rooms she’d found at a women’s hotel on the other side of the Square. Near enough to be conveniently at hand when she was needed, far enough away to prevent idle tongues from wagging. She was often seen in his company about town, but since the population of the area had no knowledge of what had been transpiring between them, it was the general consensus that she was in his employ. It was true, at any rate, because Anna had turned down Barrish’s offer of re-employment, and remained with Holmes.

Because she was a gipsy, the society columns were uninterested in the liaison; if one day Holmes would take up with a woman, it would hardly be a woman beneath his own level of society, after all. People only saw what they wanted to see. If his hand lingered on hers after helping her into a cab, it went unnoticed by most. If he held her near to him a bit longer than was proper after pulling her out of the way of passing pedestrians, it was not commented upon. If he kissed her hand in greeting, it was only a show of courtesy. No one seemed to look closely enough to see the lust in his eyes.

It made me wonder if they would ever publicly acknowledge their growing affection for each other. What would happen if Holmes finally got around to proposing to her? He must consider what others would think. He must somehow lay the groundwork first, or risk the loss of valuable contacts and clients. As high a pedestal as the people had him on, the fickle population could just as easily push him off of it.

“And where is your troubled mind wandering this morning?” Mary asked. I hadn’t even been aware that she’d seated herself at the table, so wrapped up in my thoughts was I.

“Holmes,” I answered. “Holmes and Anna, actually. I was wondering what the future holds for them.”

“What do you mean? They seem happy together.”

“Quite so,” I agreed. “But when will they make it official by allowing the world to see what their relationship really is? I once asked him if he meant to marry the girl.”

“Now, John,” Mary chided, “surely you don’t expect Sherlock to live his life according to society’s rules? If such were the case, his relationship with Anna wouldn’t even exist.”

“True,” I said, smiling. “If either of the two suddenly decided to act as the world demands, I would worry that they’d been replaced by imposters.”

“I think it’s wonderful to see their friendship progress,” my trusting and innocent wife said as she arose to take our coffee cups to the sink. I watched her backside sway beneath her dress, disturbed by the unbidden memory of the scene I had yesterday inadvertently witnessed between Anna and Holmes. I would most certainly have to get into the habit of sending word ahead of time before I visited. Never again would I incautiously open the door to his sitting room, as I did yesterday. So caught up with passion were they, and so wantonly on the sofa for anyone to witness, that I’m confident they never knew their forbidden lust had been spied upon. The memory of the way her nails dug into his shoulders, the way his face had turned into a twisted masque of concentration as his body thrust into her... Would my wife, whom I loved with every breath I took, ever cause me to moan deliriously in such a way? Would I ever be a man to move her to behave as Anna did with Holmes?

And if I suddenly became more adventurous in our bedroom, would she fear me? Would she wonder what had come over me? Perhaps if I tried something non-threatening, such as leaving a lamp lit...or pulling away the blanket she would try to hide beneath, so I could gaze boldly at her naked beauty...

Snapping my thoughts back, lest she become aware of my wanton ideas, I focused on the words she was saying.

“There is definitely something wicked under the surface, you know.”

I struggled to figure out her meaning, pretending to have been listening. “Well, that could probably be said of all of us, you know.”

“But some more than others, don’t you think? I mean, yes, she’s a gipsy, and she’s been reared quite differently than most of us. Still, I wonder if it might be those very differences that attract them to each other? Once the novelty wears off, do you suppose she’ll be on her way? Leaving him empty and adrift?”

“It’s nothing I would want to guess about,” I said, hoping this wasn’t women’s intuition at work. “Nothing I want to consider, either. He was bad enough when he didn’t know who she was. If she were to leave now, I shudder to think how he’d react.”

“Well, it would be difficult to imagine, anyway,” Mary said with finality. “They seem very happy in each other’s company. I do believe Sherlock is getting younger with time, and you only have Anna to thank for that.”

“True. And her happiness shows clearly in her radiant features. Such bliss is to be envied.”

“Envied?” Mary frowned at me, humor shining in her eyes. “And you say that to me as if you aren’t similarly surrounded in such euphoria?” Humor aside, it was as though she were daring me to agree. I pulled her down to my lap, enjoying the blush staining her lovely face. Perhaps now would be a good time to throw away conventions. I slipped my hand under the folds of her dress, inching my way up her leg.

“John!” she protested, pushing away my hand without conviction. She darted glances all around the dining room, as if she expected to find someone lurking about, witness to my bold overture.

I obligingly removed my hand, instead gripping her hips and pulling her closer to feel the evidence of my new-found boldness. At once caught up in a fever as her face grew even redder, I kissed and nibbled at her neck, knowing the surprise of such an assault would throw her for a loop. I hadn’t behaved this amorously even while we honeymooned, and the more surprised she was, the more emboldened I became.

Standing and pulling her up, seating her on the table before us, I kissed away her protests, caught up in my own scenario. As this new personality took me over, I forgot all about the trepidation I felt with her earlier and prophetic-sounding words.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

When Anna moved away to the hotel, I had been in an agitated state, fearing that she felt a need to distance herself from me. Having had no personal experience in dealings between men and women in romantic entanglements, I at least knew that many people claimed to have been taken quite unaware when things had turned sour in their relationships, and I was beginning to overanalyze everything she said and think twice about everything I did. Such tension only seemed to amuse her.

And of the many things that seemed to amuse her, I failed to see how being in danger heightened her interest in things physical. Perhaps it was the adrenaline coursing through her that caused her to behave in such a way, as when Trevor had been searching for a way to get to us in the office building the other night. And when the homeless vagrants under the Waterloo Bridge had accosted us, it had seemed to enervate her. It had been uninhibited laughter ringing from her as we struggled to catch our breath, and when I’d insulted her with my words, she’d reacted as though I had cut her to the core. Such a vulnerability seemed more in keeping with the tender feelings following lovemaking, and I began to wonder if this noesis was typical of gipsies, or if it was her own particular idiosyncrasy. Perhaps I’d been missing something as I sneered at women whose passions seemed to control their behavior.

In any event, as she was not inclined to shy away from danger, I allowed her to get more and more involved with the work I did for Lestrade and various other clientele. She proved to be quite an asset in those cases that called for a woman’s touch, and she was a natural talent when it came to finessing information from otherwise shy people. The added benefit of having her with me more often was something I refused to feel guilty about.

As we were working closely together, I hardly noticed she was no longer living in my flat. Not until night fell, when she took herself away to her rented room, and I remained here, alone and depressed, finding it difficult to fall asleep. My dreams were tortured versions of our remembered dalliances, of the thrill of decadent love. On more occasions than I would openly admit to, I thought about the question Watson asked of me when I first mentioned to him that I intended to hire Anna as my assistant. I began to envision what life would be like with Anna as my wife.

Then I would toss and turn, not having any idea what life would be like as any woman’s husband. It was something I couldn’t even imagine. And yet, the idea persisted, mercilessly.

My fears about Anna’s wanting to cool our relationship seemed to be for naught. There were times I would be describing a set of circumstances involving an alleged crime when I had the erotic and undeniable feeling that she was undressing me with her eyes. When I looked to her to confirm or deny my suspicions, she would blush prettily, refusing to lower her eyes. The blush, combined with her bold stare, would suggest a paradox that I was helpless to fight, and I would lose my train of thought, succumbing to her charms. It’s truly a wonder we managed to get any work done, really.

Although I was slowly becoming accustomed to her wantonness, there were times when she yet took me by surprise, and rendered me incapable of reason. There came such an incident when we were discussing the mystery of the misplaced items in Mr. Gadlow’s household, and I looked up to see her eyeing me, her delicate and oh, so skilled tongue tracing a sensuous pattern across her lower lip. She met my eyes, and I could see that she had surprised herself with her thoughts; the knowledge fed my masculine ego. That I could, although rarely, catch her off her guard was a point or two in my favor, and it gave me the smallest feeling of superiority over her.

As I held her gaze, I allowed her to see the invitation she knew I could never give voice to, as our entire relationship was to be kept hidden, behind closed doors, away from the judgmental eyes of society.

I watched the smile come slowly to her lips, the sparkle in her eyes magnifying as she slowly got up from her position on the sofa to stand before me. She took from me the file of papers I was holding, setting them on the desk on which I was half-sitting. She moved closer to me, her leg gently urging apart my own, and I allowed my hands to settle on her hips as she pushed close to me. I pulled her even closer, showing her how my body was responding already.

The touch of her lips on mine, as always, took the teasing playfulness away from my actions, and I struggled to keep my blood from boiling too quickly, so immediate was my reaction to her seduction. She could control me with just the right glance, with just the perfect amount of come hither in her eyes. Couple that with the way her hips ground against mine, and I was helplessly and happily lost in her arms.

I don’t remember how we made it to the sofa, but I do remember how each motion her hands took to relieve me of my restrictive clothing sent me further and further into the fires of passion. She deliberately pushed away my hands as she worked on my tie, pulling the material free of my neck, making me feel the friction of clashing materials. She knew, by the rasp of my breath, how I fought to control myself as she painstakingly pulled open each button, with every nerve in my body alive and aware of the touch of her hand on my flesh, of her lips following in the wake. She’d opened my shirt, but I hadn’t the presence of mind to take it off. My shaking hands were all over her, unable to remove her layers of dress from her.

She lowered my trousers to my knees, but I hadn’t the patience to remove them either. Her hands could reach what they sought, and once she began stroking me, I would not have understood what trousers were even had they been used to strangle me. I growled out my frustration with the mysteries of women’s clothing, and she shifted until I could reach under her skirts, delighting in the satiny feel of her bare legs under my hands.

I reached higher, seeking to render useless whatever coverings were hidden there, and I momentarily ceased all motion upon finding nothing covering her, save her skirts. Looking quickly into her eyes, I saw that they had darkened from warm brown to fiery black in her passion. She’d neglected dressing properly, as if knowing such undergarments would only be in the way. Knowing she must have planned this supposedly spontaneous display of lust did something to me, and I shut my eyes against the sudden flood of emotion that shot through me. The very idea that when she wasn’t with me, when she was preparing for her day, she was thinking about making love with me...I felt like the most powerful and attractive man in the world.

Needing to bury myself into her before I humiliated myself by acting like an inexperienced boy, I gasped out my encouragement to her as she guided me to her hot entrance. Each encounter I’d had with her became progressively better and more exciting, and I wondered if it were possible it could continue this way. At what point did one’s mind and body simply explode with the feelings and primal urges that erupted between two souls?

I entered her, and she moved her hands to my rear, pulling me closer and smoothing over flesh that had not been in the habit of being touched. Such a pleasurable feeling to know she wanted to touch me, that she wasn’t thinking about what ladies did and did not do...bless the primitive animal in her that brought out the beast in me.

As I thrust against her tightness, gripping her tightly, she moved under me in perfect coordination of my movements. Her tight heat was already infusing me, and I was relieved to know that she was keeping up with me. To hear her moans in my ear, to hear her words of encouragement, and especially to hear her gasps when I shifted to reach more of her...the sounds of her passion were an aphrodisiac to my fevered brain and body.

I was peripherally aware of a cool breeze glancing across my bare arse, and only dimly perceived that the door or window must have been open, but before the thought could take root, I felt her nails digging into the flesh of my shoulders. She was getting close and it caused me to let go of my little remaining restraint. I shouted out to her as I began pumping feverishly into her, straining for completion, out of my mind with the sudden flaring of her inner heat as she stiffened under me, her muscles milking me, causing me to groan out my acquiescence. We shared our explosive climax, each of our bodies reacting to the other’s, and it seemed never-ending, all-encompassing.

I heard the unmistakable sound of the door closing as I struggled to catch my breath. I could only hope it was my imagination, and not Mrs. Hudson or a potential client.

I collapsed on top of her, too spent to know what my next move was to be. I was lulled by the warm and buzzing sensation of her fingers combing through my hair, her soft caress on my back easing my momentarily troubled mind. By the time I could move and we put ourselves back in order, I had forgotten all about that niggling feeling that our lovemaking might have been witnessed by someone unknown. It didn’t come back to me until late that night, as I was hugging my pillow to me in lieu of her body. It couldn’t have been a client, as not even Lestrade was allowed entrance to my rooms without being escorted by Mrs. Hudson. It surely had not been Mrs. Hudson, or a scream would have accompanied her entry.

It must have been Watson. He was the only one, besides Anna, who would have been coming up to see me without prior engagement, or without the company of Mrs. Hudson. I realized it was high time I spoke to him about my relationship with Anna, if only to gauge his feelings about it. I wasn’t certain he’d ever really approved, and if he saw what he must have seen on my sofa, I may well have lost several points of esteem in his eyes. It bothered me that he would disapprove, but how could he not?

He had properly courted Mary, as any gentleman would court his future wife, so as not to besmirch her reputation. Would he think less of me because of my probable exploitation of Anna’s charms? He had brought up the subject of marriage, and far earlier than one would think necessary. Was that because he’d seen what Anna’s hands were doing to me during my fever? No mention of that had ever been made between us either.

I now realized that I was neglecting a valuable friendship, and I made plans to broach the subject forthwith, no matter how awkward and uncomfortable such a subject proved to be. I’d play it by ear as to how deeply involved our discussion would be, but the idea of unspoken censure or misunderstandings between us bothered me. Surely there are times one must speak openly, rather than repress questions and judgments. Unless...

My thoughts instantly became scrambled in a whirl at the idea that he might discuss these things with Mary, and I knew I had to speak to him before running into Mary again. She was someone with whom I had always been able to speak frankly, and I didn’t want that to change, should she be aware of exactly what Watson must have seen. Just how open with each other were they?

With the decision made to seek out Watson’s opinion, I nuzzled the pillow in my arms and allowed my tired mind to drift off to sleep. Tomorrow could bring about many changes, the warm friendship I shared with Watson being one of them. I would need my wits about me in order to salvage what I could of his esteem.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Pushed out of the house by Mary, who was still-blushing and very satisfied, if I do say so myself, I had an extra bounce in my step as I made my way to my surgery to handle my morning calls. It was in the back of my mind to visit Holmes’ before returning home that day, but I was at a loss as to how to approach him now.

Knowing that unless she’d been taken ill, God forbid, Anna would be with him, I dared not arrive without their knowing I was coming. I couldn’t take any more sightings of the sort that greeted me the day before, but I knew he would think it strange that suddenly I was sending word ahead of time that I was planning on stopping in.

Then I reminded myself of his ability to almost read people’s minds, and knew he would deduce all the right things in receiving my message. That would open the door to a more frank discussion of things, and now I had to decide whether or not I would admit to having seen more than anyone should have seen.

By the time I’d seen three patients, I had worked out in my mind that it was pointless to equivocate with Holmes; I had never been good at that sort of thing, and even if I had gained expertise there, he’d see right through it. So, I sent off my message, and knew that by the time I arrived there he would have calculated that I knew, that I must have seen.

I could then leave it entirely up to him if he wanted to discuss it or not. It was none of my business, but I also knew that everyone needed someone to listen to their doubts and fears, and he was just a mortal man, like any of us. Well, not like any of us, really, but past experience has proven to me that he did indeed sometimes need a sounding board. And who better than I to listen? No one else knew him as I did, and so we would discuss his relationship with Anna or not. It would be his call.

This decision being made, I could focus more intently on my patients, and I whittled through them, all at once eager to see if Holmes would bring up the subject of his relationship with Anna. Now that my mind was made up, I perversely anticipated his explanations; on the other hand, I worried that he had gotten in over his head. From such different worlds the two hail, and if they were to make a go of it, it would be a very long bridge between them that must be crossed. In his shoes, I would have nothing _but_ doubts.

I climbed the steps to the sitting room at 221B, and I hesitated before the door to his rooms. Feeling slightly foolish, I knocked, waiting a few seconds before opening the door. Looking around the sitting room, I saw it was empty of anyone but Holmes, who’d been sitting on the edge of his desk, smoking his pipe and looking amused.

“Well, come in, Watson!” he said, laughter in his voice. “Don’t stand on ceremony; please do sit, make yourself comfortable. Mrs. Hudson knew of your impending visit and has provided tea. Help yourself.”

“Yes, well...it seemed...” I floundered for words. Trust Holmes to turn the tables and make me feel awkward instead of the other way round. Munching on a slice of Mrs. Hudson’s pound cake, I looked up to see the amused twinkle still in his eyes.

“I suppose she wondered why I sent a message,” I mumbled.

“She didn’t read the message, so she must assume there was important news there, in addition to the fact that you were planning to come visiting. I must admit,” he continued, “that the message didn’t surprise me. Please forgive me; I know it was my behavior that made you think it was necessary to provide warning.”

Here was the opening. Should I pursue it? No, I decided. I took another bite of the cake, giving myself an excuse not to comment.

“Am I right in deducing that you came here, without being expected, and saw something that made you unwilling to chance it happening again?”

I merely nodded, still wondering how frank he would be. I began to regret coming, knowing I could have been content to continue on in pretended ignorance.

“Please accept my apologies for that,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid I’m still quite new to...to matters of the heart...to matters of the flesh.” He seemed to be rooting around for words, and as this was yet another facet of the man who had always seemed to have the answers, my attention was riveted on his struggle for the words that would define what was happening to him.

“I had always prided myself on discipline,” he continued, not telling me anything I didn’t already know. “But that seems to have been quite shaken up lately. I am no more disciplined around Anna than a starving man would be around a feast. I’m afraid I’ve fallen into the very depths of the volcano that otherwise intelligent men suffer at the hands of women.”

“You sound as though you still mistrust them,” I remarked.

“Probably more so now than ever,” he admitted. “Anna holds a power over me that is both frightening and addicting. I don’t know whether I should run from it or embrace it feverishly.”

“I wonder if it’s beyond your capability to run now,” I suggested.

He looked at me, and I could see by his expression that he was wondering how much I’d seen. I busied myself with my cup of tea, not wanting him to use what he saw in my eyes as a tool to determine how candid he would be. It was fully his decision as to how much he wanted to say in the matter.

“It could very well be,” he answered finally. He began to pace, blowing blue smoke up from his pipe as he looked out the window, then turned to cross the room and run his fingers idly over the spines of the books on his shelf.

“And where is our lovely Anna now?” I asked.

“I sent her out on a few non-essential errands. I thought perhaps your specific reason for coming today was so we might speak. I think she knows I sent her out only to get her out of the way, but she didn’t seem to hold it against me. I wonder if she knows it was you at the door yesterday?”

There it was. An irrefutable admission of his knowledge that his lovemaking had not been unobserved by an outsider. He’d deftly lobbed this hot potato back to me, and it was mandatory that I reply, even if it was to stammer out nonsense. At least I could let him know I wouldn’t stand in judgment of him or Anna. I couldn’t leave here until he knew that.

“Holmes,” I began, preparing to say whatever came into my head, as this might be my best opportunity to help clear the tension away, imagined on my part or not. “I must confess, yesterday wasn’t the first time I’d walked in on something I shouldn’t have.

“When you were taken ill, I saw what you and Anna were doing. I could think of nothing to do but to leave before either of you realized I was there. And yesterday...what happened...I wish I could remove from my memory what I’d seen, but being that’s impossible, I only want you to know that I don’t stand in judgment. Not of you, nor of Anna. These things are not only none of my affair, they are nothing that cause me to think any the less of you.

“Admittedly, there was a time I had thought less of Anna because of it, but by the time I opened that door yesterday, I was long past thinking of her as someone not worthy of my respect. I don’t pretend to understand her, but I daresay you couldn’t make that claim yourself, either.”

He smiled ruefully, his agreement unspoken. He looked at me, not speaking, and so I continued.

“I think it’s wonderful that you two have found each other, and my only worry now is that Anna seems so unpredictable that I wonder what future plans the two of you have. Surely you have discussed things with her?”

“No, Watson, I haven’t. There is no real understanding between us.” He waved away my imminent questions, continuing to pace as he spoke.

“She’s so unlike any of the ladies of our own world,” he said. “I don’t think it ever crossed her mind that most people conduct themselves according to a set of tacit rules society had determined. I don’t believe she cares a fig about what’s proper and what isn’t. I have been trying to imagine what our lives would be like should we marry, because, on the one hand, how could we _not_ marry? With everything that’s happened between us, we must, of course marry, although we’re coming to it belatedly.

“On the other hand, perhaps she has no intention of marrying me, or anyone else for that matter. According to what I’ve pieced together from the little scraps of information she lets slip, she’s been looking after herself for the last ten years, more or less. It couldn’t have been easy, but she’s managed fairly well, even while Trevor had upset her world. True, that almost killed her, but in the end, it seemed to make her stronger. I suppose her strength comes from the knowledge that she’d survived it all.

“I have never mentioned marriage to her. Quite frankly, I’m afraid to. I’m afraid it would be like trying to close my fist around smoke.” He demonstrated by reaching out to a plume of tobacco smoke just released from his pipe, then opening his hand to show me that it was empty.

“What if I asked her to marry me, and she got frightened and disappeared, much like this smoke?”

“Perhaps it’s still too soon,” I suggested. “Don’t think about your physical relations with her; we both, actually, we all three, must realize that part of it was due to strange circumstances. After all, if she had not been here to nurse you back to health, she wouldn’t have been in a position to respond to your delirious ravings.

“What came afterwards could probably be blamed on what came before,” I continued. “The two of you were already beyond being strangers to each other, and you can’t go back to being ignorant of each other’s feelings.

“Therefore, if she had never come here to convalesce from her own illness, and if she had not been here to see to yours, none of what followed would have happened, would it? You would probably have courted her in a more conventional manner.”

“Would I? I believe I would have denied, even to myself, that I had feelings for her. And those feelings began as soon as I first set my eyes on her. Remember when I told her I couldn’t take her case? It was as if I knew, even then, how much it would upset my world.”

“Even as you didn’t take on her case at the time,” I pointed out, “your world was upset.”

“Indeed it was, Watson. I will never be the same, and I don’t know yet whether or not I regret it.”

“So, you’re having doubts as to the future of your relationship with her?”

“I fear I will always have doubts, old friend,” he said wistfully. “If I were to propose to her, if she were to accept, I could spend our fiftieth wedding anniversary still wondering if we had a future together.”

It hit me then, what an incredible force her entry into his life was, beginning with the very day she’d hesitated to cross the street to approach these rooms, seeking his help. It had started something of an avalanche, and we were all powerless in its execution.

It was Fate that had brought her to his door, and Fate was such a seemingly powerful entity. I again recalled Mary’s musings of the day before, wondering how things would play out. It was frightening to know that nothing we could do would stem the tide of events that Fate was surely casting before us all.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

I must confess to feeling nervous and uncertain as I waited in my rooms, listening to the sound of Watson’s footsteps as he climbed the stairs, my nerves growing even more taut as he paused outside the door, then knocked. As he finally pushed open the door and looked around the room, my inner tension was so great that I’m afraid I startled him with the exuberance of my words.

Perhaps I’d put too much enthusiasm into my greeting in an attempt to conceal my discomfort. Here was a man, my closest friend, who now felt he must make an appointment to come calling, who felt he must ask permission to enter rooms he had once considered his home. I felt horrible.

My heart warmed as I noticed his unease. That he persevered in seeking out my audience, although it was difficult for him, proved to me that he valued our friendship as much as did I. The thought allowed me to relax slightly, although his reasons for being here today would force me to give voice to things I had cowardly avoided in the past. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that he’d been the cause of the cold draught moving across my bared backside yesterday. What I needed to know is how it might have changed the way we felt in each other’s company. I had no precedents upon which to fall, and it worried me that I could handle this badly, that I could rip at the very fabric of our much-valued friendship.

Once I calculated that he’d seen as much as I had feared he’d seen, I made a formal apology of it, and the words between us came more easily. It was still very difficult for me to describe my feelings, so unsure of them was I, but the difficulty was in my lack of the proper vocabulary for heretofore unknown territory, not the attitude of my attentive friend.

Would I propose to Anna? Inwardly cursing my inability to predict her reaction, I worried that to formalize our relationship would be to forever change it. Is that what I wanted? I had no qualms about behaving in the proper fashion, dictated by the world around me, but is this a world of which Anna could be a part? Would she come to resent the invisible restraints of society, those restraints she’d never had to answer to before?

I wondered if it had been difficult for her to adapt to acceptable behavior while she’d been in the employ of Barrish. It would have been mandatory for her to act with all proper decorum—she was an example to the Barrish children, after all. Had it shackled her spirit in any way? Perhaps I was not giving her the proper credit; she’d never done anything in public that would cause eyebrows to be raised, and she was probably more comfortable in the public eye than I.

Was she expecting me to propose to her? Wouldn’t any woman, and well before any liberties had been taken? What was it that made me worry I might force some irrevocable change in a relationship that mystified and astounded me? Refusing to do something about this was no doubt causing me a great deal more stress than it deserved, and I couldn’t simply continue living in my self-created atmosphere of denial.

Watson took himself home when he began to fear Anna’s return. I felt a twinge of regret, knowing it would be some time before he’d feel he could look her in the eye again. The ripples from the stone I’d tossed into the pond of my life continued to affect the people around me, and I knew no matter how I might lose my mind in Anna’s company, I would always come back down to earth to feel guilty about how my actions could create reactions in others’ lives. I so wished for the ability to hide myself away from all others, on some distant island, where I wouldn’t be accountable for or to anyone but myself and Anna.

My thoughts were interrupted by a commotion from the streets below, and I looked out the window to see what was happening. Large crowds of people were running both to and from the Square; the faces moving toward Baker Street were filled with horror, and the steps of those heading toward the Square were eager. Something had happened in the Square, and I thought it would be better that I mixed with the crowd to see what it was, rather than wait for word to come to me. It might involve Anna, after all; she had a natural inclination toward disaster.

I was just putting on my jacket when I heard Anna’s light footsteps quickly climbing the stairs. I stopped, waiting for her to open the door, the fluttering in my midsection a testament to the nervous anticipation she could still make me feel. She came into the room, smiling brightly at me after shooting a look through the room.

“So, how did your talk with Dr. Watson go?” she asked in a breathless voice. She must have run from the Square. Silly of me to think she wouldn’t know why she’d been sent away. I suspected she knew all the details of what would have been said by both him and me, and exactly what Watson had seen. It didn’t seem to upset her nearly as much as it worried me.

“First things first,” I said. “You’ve just come from the Square? What’s causing the people to run amok in such a way? You’re aware of something happening down there?”

“Well, I tend to avoid crowds when I can,” she answered. “But yes, something happened—I don’t know what.” My instincts were immediately brought into more focus, troubled by the way she avoided my eyes as she answered. She knew more than she was telling, which could only mean she was once again in the thick of things.

“Anna, tell me what’s going on.”

She met my eyes then, alerted by what she heard in my voice. I saw her take a deep, fortifying breath, then blow it out. Whatever it was, she was reluctant to speak of it, but I knew she would.

“It’s Laurence Trevor,” she said, looking away once again. She moved to stand before the window, looking out toward the Square. As I moved to stand behind her, trying to see what she was seeing, she continued.

“He fell or jumped off that office building where we had hidden from him. He’s there, on the street...what’s left of him. I didn’t see much—I was on my way back here already. I didn’t want a closer look.”

“He was up on the roof?”

She lifted one shoulder. She would have no reason to know, I suppose, as the business I’d sent her out on, claiming I needed information, would have sent her to the opposite corner of the Square. There would have been no reason for her to be in or on that building, but it was always the questions she didn’t answer that concerned me more than her answers to the questions she did answer. She apparently had no qualms about lying to me.

“I suppose he didn’t survive the fall,” I murmured. Looking to the top of the building in question, I counted nine stories. At the very least, he would have broken his neck. Saying a quick prayer that his passing would have been quick, if not completely painless, I took her shoulders in my hands to turn her until she faced me.

“Had he caught sight of you in the Square?” I asked quietly, willing her to answer.

“Yes.”

“Did he pursue you?”

“Yes.”

“Anna, did you lead him to the top of that building?”

“Yes.” This last was whispered so softly that I heard it more by reading her lips than by hearing it. One more question...I had to know.

“Did you push him from the building?”

“Yes.”

I backed away from her, my thoughts a chaotic whirl, bombarding my logic with fears, with anticipated investigations, with impending doom. When the chair of my desk hit my legs, I collapsed into it, leaning over the desk and burying my face in my hands. What to do now? Surely I could do nothing to protect her from the consequences of her actions...but I was not an officer of the courts. Was I really obliged to turn her over to the authorities to face charges? Even if her defense was that she was trying to protect herself, wouldn’t I just be feeding her to the wolves?

But how could I ignore what she’d just revealed to me? It would always be between us; I would feel as though I’d compromised myself to protect her. Would that grow until it became a festering wound of resentment?

I tried to imagine that she was already my wife, that I had promised her I would always do everything in my power to protect her. Would she not have likewise spoken the same vows to me? Being the instrument by which Trevor found his death, she had put me in a position from which I could not win.

“What happened, Anna?”

Silence.

I looked up at her. She was standing before the window, the brightness of the day behind her causing her features to be hidden in shadow. She stood motionless, and I strained my eyes to discern her mood. “Anna?”

“I ran from him, Sherlock. I didn’t want him to follow me out of the Square, where there was less of a crowd around. I tried to escape down an alley, but he followed. He moved more quickly than he had in the past, and I thought I might enter a shop or two to get away from him. He simply followed me inside, and I had to leave before everyone became aware of his pursuit of me. I knew no one would help me, and I could only think to lose him in the crowds. I went all through the Square, walking quickly, but afraid to run because I didn’t want to bring so much attention to myself.

“I ended up in the same alley we were in when we found the ladder to the office building’s upper offices. After a few attempts, I was able to jump high enough to reach the ladder and pull it down. But by the time I’d climbed halfway up, he was climbing it as well.

“I didn’t take the time to try the window, remembering you’d locked it anyway. Besides that, I was sure the tenants would have gone through the whole building after it became known it had been intruded upon, looking for possible entries for future intruders. That’s why we ended up on the roof. I just had to keep going, trying to get away from him.”

“So, he cornered you on the roof?”

“He looked for me; I had found some smokestacks to hide behind, and I planned to wait until he was away from the ladder before I would climb down to effect my escape.”

“It didn’t work out that way?”

“He was leaning over the rail at the edge of the roof,” she said. “It didn’t seem as though he was balanced very well. The temptation to end my worries was very great, Sherlock. I was so weary of running from him. He just never seems to have to pay for his crimes. “I crept up behind him and...pushed...ever so slightly. He fell, screaming. I heard the impact as his body hit the ground. I turned, without looking over the roof, and went back down the ladder. I came straight back here.” It worried me that her words could have been describing something that needn’t concern her, something she might have read about in the papers. There wasn’t as much anxiety in her voice as I would have expected.

“No one saw that you were up there?”

“I’d swear to that, Sherlock.”

It chilled me to hear the way she said that. She was asking for my complicity in hiding her involvement, confident she would get away with it. The warmth that seeped through my being at her trust in me conflicted with the horror I felt at her seeming callousness in disposing of a man’s life. True, he’d made her own life a living hell, but had she really no faith at all in the law? In my ability to protect her?

Protect her! Again, I had been the one to send her out this noon, on a fool’s mission, thereby delivering her right into Trevor’s clutches. What reason could she have to trust me, after all?

I stood up, moving to her and brushing her hair away from her face. I could see she’d been very active in her escape, both from Trevor and from the gathering crowd. Her cheeks were still flushed from her activities, her hair had come loose from her pins. I looked into her eyes, searching for clues there.

“You realize, don’t you, that because of my involvement with the activities of Trevor, the constable will be coming here? If only to ask me questions about what I may know of the confounded man’s doings?”

“I’m sorry you were ever involved, Sherlock. You should have left me under the bridge.”

I shut my eyes against the desolation in her voice, pulling her close to me and embracing her. I was somehow relieved to know she was not as indifferent to the situation as her unemotional words had implied.

“Never say such things, Anna. Surely with the known history of Trevor’s harassing you, the courts will be lenient. We’ll find the best defense available for you...I’ll be at your side through it all...”

“Except for when I must go to prison, Sherlock. You can’t be with me there.”

“Perhaps it wouldn’t come to that.”

“You know better than that. Have you ever heard of any gipsy, man or woman, to come out the better for going into the courts? It would be years before I’d see freedom again.”

I couldn’t argue with her, couldn’t find any words of comfort. Facing a possible prison term would be the hardest thing she’d ever have to face in her young life. One year in prison for her would be akin to ten years for anyone else. And gipsies were hardly regarded as human beings by the bulk of the officials who ruled over the country.

We stood before the window forever, my grip on her a useless attempt to offer strength and comfort, her trembling body in my arms proof that she knew what lay ahead of her.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Two months after Laurence Trevor’s death, Holmes packed up and left London. Although he spoke to me about his plans to leave, he refused to reveal more specific details about it, only hinting around that he was feeling in poor health and felt some time in a more tropical climate could only improve things. He most likely had no more concrete plans than that, and I agreed it was indeed necessary to get away from it all. I only expressed concern that he could not give me an idea of when he intended to return.

I had thought Anna and he would celebrate Trevor’s death by allowing the society pages to formally announce their courtship, or even their engagement, but it was not to be. Anna had disappeared soon after her nemesis had died, and Holmes had offered no explanation about that either, other than to say she would not be back. Thus began his general decline. And no matter how I pushed, his answers were unsatisfying at best.

“But she left of her own free will?” I asked incredulously. “She hasn’t been...taken?”

“It was her choice, Watson.”

“But her troubles were to be finally over! With Trevor dead...”

“Her troubles were just beginning. There was nothing else for it.”

I expressed my surprise that he did not leave with her, but he didn’t rise to the bait. I knew I would never get all the details about Anna’s decision to leave, effectively cutting Holmes out of her life completely.

Holmes had worked with Lestrade to completely decode the mysterious message at the bottom of the document Trevor had so coveted, and the few accomplices in Trevor’s plan to kidnap the Barrish children had been rounded up. The shipment of goods coming into the country was properly auctioned off by Bellamy and Bradstock, and the previously stolen jewels and property deeds had been returned to their rightful owners. All wrapped up, most questions answered.

But not all questions. It is something I will never become accustomed to—the irritating, unanswered details from so many of Holmes’ cases. More so this one, because of Anna’s involvement in it, and because of the way it had caused such change in Holmes.

Mary had waved away my anxiety over Anna’s disappearance, sure that the gipsy would return some time in the future. I couldn’t share this hope, because I was party to Holmes’ subsequent melancholia. Though he never told me what conversation occurred between the two of them, I knew he would not be so morose if he expected her to return. During my military duty in India, I’d seen the same brooding acceptance from men who’d lost legs and arms. He was sure he would never see her again.

It didn’t take long for the less-than-honest citizens of this fair city to become aware of Holmes’ absence. Crime statistics suddenly increased, all of the wayward souls wanting to make hay while the sun shone, and none knowing when it would all end. Lestrade must have been at his wits’ end, knowing he couldn’t keep things under control without Holmes’ help, and also knowing the public was becoming more and more aware he had none of the skills for crime-solving he’d claimed as his own for so long.

That was how things stood for two years. That was how long he was gone from us. Most of the genteel society took to keeping home in the evenings, tired of worrying about being held up as we innocently pursued our interests. We weren’t even safe at the ballet in the early evening hours, or in the public marketplace on a bright afternoon.

When he came back, renting the same rooms from Mrs. Hudson, who’d purposely kept them available for her favorite tenant, it was without fanfare, without any sort of warning. I, myself, wasn’t aware of his return until the headlines in the papers became conspicuously milder, and it was Mary who had put two and two together. I at once went over to 221B, hoping it was true.

He greeted me effusively, and I noticed his skin was tanned, his eyes bright and clear. He confirmed that he’d been spending the last two years in Bombay, soaking up the sun and pursuing idle pleasures. His health seemed fine, and his spirits none the worse for the wear. He made no mention of Anna.

We enjoyed tea together, and he told me of how he’d been spending his time. He’d started up a bee farm, supporting himself by selling the honey and wax. He’d caught up on his reading, venturing into the world of fiction—a first for him. He’d even condescended to reading back issues of _The Strand,_ which he’d had delivered to him by special messenger. Still no mention of Anna.

I brought him up-to-date with all the recent criminal activity, tolerating his smile when I ventured forth my theories. In a few cases, he provided insight just from hearing my narrative; Lestrade would be more than pleased to have him back. When he inquired as to Mary’s health, I told him all the interests she’d been involved with since he’d seen her last.

He did express interest in poking his nose into what had been happening around the city, and I finally began to feel all was well. But still no mention of Anna. This could not go on.

“Holmes, at the risk of opening old wounds, you must have thought about Anna during your hiatus,” I asked timidly. “What of all that? You’ve never said what prompted her to leave. I thought the two of you were happy together.”

“We were,” he answered, after a long moment of silence. “What was the final outcome of Trevor’s death?”

“The inquest was where it ended,” I said. What could the question mean? An obvious attempt to change the subject? “There was no reason to believe it wasn’t suicide. His own wife testified that he’d been despondent, that he had been becoming increasingly depressed over his business failures, his backward step in his career, and such like.”

“He didn’t jump,” came the answer. “He was pushed.”

It all came together in a heartbeat. Anna had somehow pushed Trevor from the building; thus her need for escape and Holmes’ later retreat. The shock of a woman, any woman, pushing... With all my exposure to human behavior by virtue of being Holmes’ biographer and friend, it still had the effect of rendering me momentarily speechless.

“So, where did she go? And will she return as you did? Now that no one suspects her of being involved with it?”

“I don’t know where she went, Watson. She wouldn’t tell me her plans. And I don’t believe she’ll ever return. Not as long as I know what really happened. Her reasons for leaving weren’t simply to escape the consequences of her rash decision to take the law into her own hands. As best as I can understand her, she left because she couldn’t face having put me in the awkward position between upholding the law to the best of my ability, and protecting her. She left because she couldn’t repair the damage, and feared causing even more. She really does have a conscience, you know.”

The last was said wistfully, as though he’d been entertaining thoughts to the contrary. How often she must have been in his thoughts these last two years! He must have had moments where he’d blasted her soul to everlasting hell for the pain she’d inflicted upon him, and more moments when he would have remembered all the happiness she’d brought into his life. Instead of having taught him that some women could be trusted, she had plainly confirmed his belief that none could be. On the surface, it seemed she’d left him as she’d found him. As if their time together hadn’t happened at all. To this day, the only reference he’d ever again make to Anna’s temporary involvement in his life would be the occasional faraway look that would come into his eyes—usually when his mind was ostensibly occupied with something else. And the secret, but pained, smile that touched his lips when someone mentioned the mysteries and treachery of women in general.

I watched him get up and move to the fireplace, taking a small box from the mantle. I recognized what he removed from the box at once. Glancing over his shoulder at me, he smiled wryly.

“Yes, Watson...the needle.”

Yes, it was as if their time together hadn’t happened at all...


End file.
